


The Love We Think We Deserve

by Melimelo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Jaime/Brienne, Canon Era, Characters Death, Cousin Incest, F/M, For 1 sentence in chapter 12, For chapter 10, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe that's not a tag, Jon/Daenerys mentionned, Mention of Past Eating Disorders, Mention of everything Sansa has been through, More comfort than hurt, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Political Jon, Rating: M, Sansa's Passionate Fight, Season 8, StarkPack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-04-03 15:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melimelo/pseuds/Melimelo
Summary: There was a painful sense of deja vu in the scenery that was quickly put into place.The South had taken so much. It took and took and took: her father, her mother, her brother, and never gave anything back.She would forgive it all, though. She would forgive if Jon returned to her – to them.She and Arya and Bran.When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.





	1. I bent but I will not break

**Author's Note:**

> Okay – first of all: disclaimer -> anything that is recognizable doesn’t belong to me.
> 
> Second, English is not my first language – so if you see abhorrent (or just annoying) mistakes, please feel free to point it/them out, I’ll correct. I read and re-read and proof-read my chapters, but sometimes it’s just not enough
> 
> Enjoy!

There was a painful sense of deja vu in the scenery that was quickly put into place. Except in the place where her whole family once stood, only her, Bran and Arya were waiting for the King’s arrival. The Lords of the North and the Vale surrounded her family, giving her a hazardous lulling illusion of safety when she knew deep down that welcoming a wannabe Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with armies of raping savages and three dragons in her homeland was everything but _safe_.

Sansa took a shuddering breath, still unsure of the right conduct to adopt. Should she be the lady of Winterfell, displaying the strength of the North against a foreign invader? Or should she revert to the naive and – more importantly – harmless girl and show a welcoming face to the solution of the Great War? The former was so very tempting. She knew her family and the Lords would back her up should she decide to bite back. By all the gods, some would surely love her more for it! But on the other hand, the Great War was the only thing that mattered right now – and Daenerys Targaryen had a gigantic army, and _three full-grown dragons_. It was more than what they could have expected a few moons prior. It was the reason Jon had left in the first place.

Jon…

She sighed with relief, struggling to school her expression and prevent the small smile she always had from arising right now. She was over the moon of his return! There was so much she wanted to show him, so much she needed to tell him. And so much he needed to tell her, too. She knew they won’t have a chance to say more than a few banalities with everybody around, the new adjustments required and the greeting meal. However, they will be able to spend the last hours of the day together, just as they did each day before their separation. Sansa was nearly tapping her feet with impatience at the prospect, instead settling for wringing her hands.

And she wasn’t the only one. Arya was letting her impatience be known to everyone around her. Bran was glazing over the people distantly, but her sister’s excitement was big enough for the three of them. Sansa let her worry settle in her mind for a few seconds at the sight of her little brother. She didn’t know what to make of the new family member she met, how to act around him. Arya didn’t seem to have any problem, but then she always spend way more time with their brothers than Sansa ever did. She guessed Jon would also know, unlike her, and that her awkwardness will fade away on its own.

“What is he doing? Doesn’t take that long to ride from the Kingsroad to here,” Arya muttered, voicing aloud what Sansa had been silently mulling over.

“They have to get through the camp and Wintertown first,” she answered. “They probably let most of the army in the camp, no use in making them ride to the castle, or maybe they stopped – to see their King again after so long is a great spirit boost for the soldiers, for sure.”

“To see my brother again after so long would be a great spirit boost for me, _that’s_ for sure. Surely they can wait.”

Someone must have heard Arya’s retort, for the sound of hooves drown Sansa’s sound of agreement. It’s a relief he’s arriving now, she absently noted, for it looks like a snowstorm is coming. The cloudless sky and warm tendrils of sun of the morning had disappeared in favor of blowing wind and snow that’s starting to fall in the tell-tale way announcing the suspension of the afternoon training in the courtyard.

His horse was the first one to enter the courtyard. It was the same one he had when he left – and for some reason this warmed Sansa’s heart. Jon was wearing the cloak she made for him, too. All in all, he didn’t appear changed: he was still the same man he was when he left. Her eyes were fixed on him, taking, assessing, trying to notice any transformation the South might have imposed on her so-Northern brother. She was suddenly filled with a great admiration – not that she didn’t admire him before, she did – but he had survived South where so many had failed. Her father, her mother, Robb, even herself – in a way. She hadn’t lost her life, only a part of her, but a part important enough that she still felt its loss, her innocence that left Winterfell and never came back. So, in a way, South had changed her – just as it changed Arya, and just as she was relieved it didn’t change Jon.

She saw him look over them, and she heard her sister’s exhale hitch and felt her own caught in her chest. But as soon as he had turned to them, he immediately turned his attention back to the second horse and its rider, thus forcing Sansa to switch her attention from him to them. She’s beautiful, that wannabe Queen – just like Littlefinger said she was. And Sansa had succeeded not think of Baelish since his death, but the following of their last conversation suddenly comes crashing back to her. Talk of her dragons and of dangerous ambition. Whispers of her beauty and of possible alliances.

He had always been right for many things. He was right for her dragons and her beauty. Who’s to say he wasn’t right for the marriage part? It had seemed ridiculous to her at the time, she had been so sure Jon wouldn’t let himself be blinded by a pretty face and long silver hair. Now, though, watching him helping the dragon queen off her mare, his arm staying around her waist as she smiles up at him, Sansa felt a cold clutch of dread around her heart.

Her breath started to quicken, her vision narrowing on the happy couple – were they? Did he really not care for her advice at all? – her jaw tightened. A myriad of feelings tried to submerge her: sadness, disappointment, anger, exhaustion. She had felt so tired since Jon left, had counted on his return to share again the burden of ruling that was laying only on her shoulders, only to be faced with him happy with a foreign whore at his arm. She saw them murmuring sweet nothing at each other with a detestable familiarity, taking their time while she and Arya and Bran waited for him.  
Gods! She hadn’t seen him in months and he only had eyes for that upstart! Arya hadn’t seen him in years! Bran too! She was angry on their behalf, perhaps more than she was on hers. She casted a quick glance to her sister, noted that her face was closed, her eyes also fixed on Jon. Finally, the sweet moment between these two was over – maybe it only lasted a couple of seconds and she was a fool for reading too much into it. Her sister’s hand anchoring her own however told her that she could trust her instincts. She had every right to feel betrayed.

But she wasn’t going to let it drown her. She was strong now, her skin steel, not ivory, not porcelain, not anymore. _I bent but I did not break._ She was a wolf, in her home, with her pack and she was safe. This wasn’t King’s Landing all over again. That Targaryen was here to help defeat the army of the dead, and after this war won, she would – they would find a solution.

Sansa squeezed Arya’s hand one last time, for support, before letting go. It wouldn’t be a smart move to welcome someone who thought she was their queen with an open gesture of united front against her.

A young eastern-looking woman cleared her throat, effectively bringing everyone’s attention on her. “You all stand in the presence of Her Grace Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen.” She made a short pause, just enough time for Sansa to wonder who will introduce her – since they never officially met – before she kept going, mouthing off a list of title that sounded laugh-worthy even to Sansa’s ears. “The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the rightful ruler of the Andals and the First Men, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen,” This is where Arya scoffed lightly – thankfully not loud enough to be heard by the Targaryen queen, but loud enough to make Sansa want to laugh as well. “Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons.”

Once the enumeration has stopped, Sansa directed her attention on Daenerys. She was a little disheartened to be forced to recognize that the young woman – who was perhaps three or four namedays older than her – stood in this foreign land with the presence and grace befitting of a queen. Besides her, though, stood Jon, Lord Varys and her former husband Tyrion. It was this entourage that ensured her a successful reign: Jon was a good ruler, Lord Varys and Tyrion had been excellent in King’s Landing – and that had been under Joffrey’s reign. So one could only imagine what they’ll be able to accomplish, serving a responsible ruler.

“Sansa,” she heard a furious whisper from her right, “look up!”

Without much thinking, Sansa looked up to the sky. There it was. A tremendous hulking mass passed over Winterfell, drawing gasps and cries from the people assembled in the courtyard. A dragon! she heard. She brought her dragons here!

And indeed, it was – only she couldn’t recognize the shape she so often saw painted on her favorite childhood books when the beast was so close. She shuddered: no description nor book could have prepared her for the reality of a dragon flying over their heads. It was terrifying, it was no tale about fair princes able to tame a beast. With one word from the ‘Mother of Dragons’, her family, her people, her home will turn to ashes – this was no queen she could stand up to. Not with so much at stake.

With a resigned sigh, she looked at the ground before bowing in a deep curtsy, “Your Grace,” she said, hoping the Lords would follow suit. Her eyes still on the ground, she felt the tense moment pass – when no one moved nor dared to breathe. I hope they do not think I betrayed them too. But the war is upon us, and she has two more dragons. There is no shame to be had – she was protecting her home. King Torrhen Stark had submitted before Aegon the Conqueror, too. And the North had remained to the Northerners – unlike the Stormlands, or Harrenhal, who were too proud to admit reason.

I am to be a harmless girl, then.

She heard Brienne’s hurried footsteps as she walked swiftly beside her to kneel next to her, then Arya’s sigh as she did the same. And the rustling of cloaks behind her, signaling the Lords had at least bowed to the Targaryen conqueror. Dragons are the only way to make the North kneel, it would seem.  
_We bend but we will not break._

“Rise, Lady Stark,” Daenerys Targaryen demanded – and she even already speaks like a queen, Sansa cringed – obeyed by everyone. 

However, before she can utter a word more, Jon strode to Arya and collided with her and took her into his arms, a mix between a sob and a laugh escaping both their throats. They stayed clinging to each other for a small eternity, each whispering muffled things to the other, their eyes glistening with tears. When they finally let go, Jon’s attention switched from her right to the person at her left. There wasn’t any effusion, he smiled – and Sansa could have sworn Bran’s eyes softened somehow – and kissed his forehead, murmured “Last time you were still recovering from your fall,” and then chuckled awkwardly in his distinct way.

Then, _and then_ , he turned to her. His smile did not fade, he wore the same look he did when he left, or when he named her regent in front of all the Lords, or when she apologized for not warning him about the Vale. It was the look she had hoped could stay theirs – even with Arya and Bran’s return home. The look that made all her worry about the mother of dragons fly away, made all her exhaustion seem less of a burden. When they hugged, she found herself wishing time would just stop, for the feeling of having him close never lasted enough time.

“We’ll talk this evening?” The question was whispered for her ear only, and that fact, adding with the guilty pleasure of him waiting for one private talk as much as she did, made her close her eyes with pure delight. 

She could feel every gaze on them and she had no desire to let anyone see how a simple embrace affected her. This moment was theirs.

==--==

The promise of “this evening” was what made her go through with her daily tasks. Jon had gone with Arya, Bran, Samwell Tarly, the Lords or showing Daenerys Targaryen around Winterfell – she did not know. She had ushered him to rest but he had declared that there was no time for that, a lot to do, and she couldn’t agree more. Hence why she was in her solar, trying to find a way to - diplomatically of course – demand to the ally of the Reach where the hell had they stocked their food supplies during tomorrow’s meeting. That was the last matter of the day, and her patience was wearing thin. The sooner she would end her daily tasks, the sooner the evening was coming. 

She shouldn’t even have had to demand! It should come naturally from their part, shouldn’t it? She refused to go find them. She had no idea how to broach the subject of food – were they considered as allies? Or was the North entirely dominated?

A soft knock startled her from her angrier and angrier thoughts. Sansa relaxed, immediately recognizing Brienne’s tell-tale asking. She smiled as she welcomed her sworn-lady-knight. Brienne had left for a training session with Podrick as soon as the dragon queen was out of sight, so she did not have the chance to speak with her.

But that wasn’t her primer concern, as the face of her trusted friend – could she think it? She never asked if the other woman considered her as a friend or if she simply was a duty – came into view. “I am so sorry,” Sansa said, standing up slowly and showing her hand in a placating gesture, only to be interrupted by a confused Brienne.

“Is everything alright, Lady Stark? Why… what is the matter?”

“It’s Sansa – I mean please call me Sansa… If you want it. When it is just the two of us, or with Arya. Obviously. I wouldn’t want to presume,” she spluttered, the guilt she felt only increasing the more she opened her mouth without thinking of the words she was going to pronounce.

“Of course, I’ll call you however you wish to be called, my la-Sansa,” she quickly amended, always eager to please. But she did not look more reassured, “Has anything happened during my absence?”, she asked again, worry plainer on her face, her hand going automatically to her sword.

“I am sorry… for the way our last conversation happened. I was haughty and harsh. I don’t want to understate my actions. I had just found that Littlefinger planned to have Arya kill you and I couldn’t…” Sansa looked up at Brienne’s face at last, figuring she might as well admitting what she thought looking at her straight in the eyes. _She will **not** hurt you._  
“I couldn’t let him do that. You are my… only friend. That’s something I never thought I’d have again – a friend, who I like and admire and respect and who doesn’t want to use me for whatever reason she has. I needed to act quickly, and to get you away from him. I knew I could trick him before he’d manipulate anyone.”

Brienne smiled at her then, a true smile, understanding, and a weight was lifted from Sansa’s shoulders. “Thank you, Sansa. I shall be honored to- I mean, I’m very glad to call you my friend.” She bashfully added, before squaring her shoulders once more, “But in that case, it is even more my job to protect you and stand beside you should harm come your way.”

Sansa thought about her words for a moment, her right hand taking a hold of one of Brienne’s. She marveled silently at their differences, and how it comforted her in a way only Jon’s or Arya’s did, instead making her worry of whatever plot or scheme the person facing her might come up with.

“Well,” she said, looking up at her friend’s face instead of their joined hands, “since we are friends, we’ll protect one another.”


	2. You promised to never let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there’s not a lot of on-screen action in this one – sorry about that. The next chapters will have more interactions between the characters (with in-between character introspection ‘cause that’ll always be my favorite thing to write).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudoed, commented, bookmarked – even the anonymous reader who just thought ‘that looks good. I’ll come back’ – the first chapter. I hope this one won’t disappoint. (And that it’s gonna keep on!)
> 
> Stuff is about to get serious :)

The Great Hall was buzzing with indistinct chatter when Sansa passed through the door for the daily late afternoon meeting with the Lords. She gave one last smile at Brienne – they had spent the last hour discussing what had occurred in Winterfell and in King’s Landing. Sansa was now precisely aware of how the meeting with Cersei happened.

Jon was already seated at the main table – though in the place she had occupied when they sat together, making her steps falter for a moment. “We put another chair for the queen”, he whispered, inclining his head to the seat at his right. A vicious anger rose on his behalf: he was the one getting relegated to the position of… consort or something. In his own home. At his own table. Had that wannabe queen no idea of how to treat her hosts?

She forced herself to calm down – the Lords were already uneasy enough without seeing her fidgeting and frowning in her chair. Jon’s presence right next to her worked its wonder and she felt at ease, as if every wrong bit finally clicked back in its right place.

“Bran wants to speak to me this evening, too, so I’ll probably leave you a bit earlier than… hm… what we used to.”

“Right, I remember him wanting to tell you something – it’s actually the first thing he told me when he arrived.”

“Aye, he made it sound like it was important. Well… Sam told me it’s important,” he amended after noticing her hopeful face. Gods, she was reduced to have hope when her little brother’s voice so much as ‘made it sound like’, instead of the worrying monotonous tone he used with her.

“Maybe you should go just after and join me when it’s over. If Lord Sam specified it, and is involved,” he chuckled lightly at that, “It could be something concerning the war or… What’s funny?”

“The way you called him. _Lord Sam_ – I’m sure it would sound strange even to him.”

“What else would I call him?”

“Just… Sam. He wouldn’t mind. But,” he added after seeing her dubious pout, “I’ll ask him for confirmation if it pleases you, my lady.”

Before she can find another retort to keep the easy banter between them going, his gaze travelled from her face to the newcomer in the room, whom she hadn’t noticed.

And that marked the turning point in his attitude. The queen’s arrival signalized the beginning of the meeting. And while Jon was always more solemn and official at meetings than he was when it’s just the two of them – as he should be, he was the king and acted like it – what happened during this meeting was a whole new level of solemnity. His face remained closed, his speech straight to the point and scarce as lord Tyrion related the meeting with his sister – omitting some details from what Brienne had told her. His whole body was a tense line next to her, and her attempt at a friendly soothing touch was met with a discreet pull back.

It hurt. To see him nearly recoil at her touch. It is useless to lie at herself, to try to dismiss it as of no importance, so she admits it. His rejection hurt. They were very tactile with each other. Well, she touched him, more than he touched her, but he’d never seemed to mind it. He would have told her, if so? She was almost certain he would. There must be another justification behind it, Sansa reasoned herself. I’ll ask this evening.

Besides, it wasn’t what she should concern herself with. She needed to arrange a talk with lord Tyrion about the food supplies. And find some time to listen to the Lords, she thought, observing their respectful masks slip away the more Tyrion spoke while Jon remained silent.

==--==

The wind was howling with the strongest storm that had happened yet this winter, making Sansa shiver even coddled under her cloak. She had asked Brienne to find her former husband, and was waiting for him in her solar, a jug of wine and two glasses ready. It wasn’t Arbor Gold, Dornish red, or even a remotely good wine – compared to the ones she recalled he favored – but it was all the North had to offer in winter.

She stood when she heard the knocking at her door, taking a last deep inhalation before putting a polite smile on her face. However, the fake smile turned sincere as soon as she met his eyes, her body reminding her mind that he had always been kind to her, a good man despite what everybody had warned her about in King’s Landing.

“Lady Sansa,” he spoke quietly, sounding almost admirative, “I am very happy to see you again, and in such positions. Jon told me you were well, I’m glad to see he wasn’t exaggerating. Though he doesn’t seem the one to exaggerate much, does he?”

Her smile grew at his not-quite but quite-enough familiar way of speaking. “I wouldn’t say he does, my lord. Please, take a seat. There is wine, if you wish, though I should probably apologize for its taste. It’s not what we are known for.”

“I seem to have left a striking impression to you,” he noted, but he interrupted her before she could apologize and damn herself for a blunder she just made. “It’s alright, you remember me correctly. I still think there is nothing better on this earth than wine. Thank you for thinking of me, that ale we had for dinner had a… very surprising taste. Between the two of us,” he whispered in a conspiring tone, “I don’t find it that appealing.” He served them both a cup of wine, before seating down.

“Neither did I, at first. But with time, I’ve grown to it. Perhaps you will too, my lord.”

“Ah! I don’t plan to stay in the North long enough to get used to it,” he said, making Sansa hide her smile in her cup at his admission that he – and that army and that dragon queen – didn’t intend to spend winter in the North. That was one less problem to be solved for her. “But we are on the same side now, enjoying a quiet evening between allies. ‘My lord’, ‘my lady’… it does sound a bit cold. Now, I’ll admit we weren’t the closest of friends when we parted, but I have always thought back on you with affection and respect.” He furrowed his brows at that, looking annoyed, “Uh no! Don’t tell your brother I phrased it like that, I really don’t want my head to end up on a spike. I mean all of that in a very, completely platonic way, of course.”

She was nonplussed at the last bit. She had been pretty sure Jon and Tyrion had been good acquaintances of sort – had they relationship changed that much in the months at Dragonstone? It was possible, but she always thought it very unlikely. “You do not have to worry about me repeating word for word everything everyone tells me to Jon. There is neither enough time, nor enough place in my mind for that… Tyrion.”

“Well then, here’s to my still safely attached head!” he joked, raising his glass. “That’s quite a protective guard you’ve got yourself here, in any case. Nevertheless, I hope he’ll find a way to calm himself down – for our queen is not the one to be coddled over.”

“What?” Sansa’s voice was barely a thread of air, and she wished with all her strength he wouldn’t notice it or think anything special about it. Why would Jon want to coddle the dragon queen? _You know why. It’s the same reason he bent the knee to her. The same reason he barely looked at you when she is in the same room._ She shook her head, willing to mute the reeking hints her mind supplied of Littlefinger’s whispers.

“I can swear that what you heard is probably true,” his voice warned her to go back to her wary self. Where his tone was light just a few words ago, now it held a sort of resentment, a darkness that she immediately took note of. She made no mention of what she might have heard, for he would probably tell her more than what she would have on her own.   
She braced herself for the unpleasant new. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a wedding announcement was to be made after the end of this war. It is quite a logical arrangement. And passion blurs ideas of the mind, the heart and the body together.” He paused, obviously to judge her reaction. She made sure to keep her face comely and her hands flat on the desk. “But whatever… I guess we’re not here only to exchange pleasantries. Is there something I can do for you?”

“There is, but I wouldn’t want to bother you with my worries.”

“You won’t. We enjoy your hospitality, it is only natural that we may be of help should the need arise, as your guests during winter.”

Good. Make sure to remind your queen not to forget this.

“That’s kind of you. It’s a very trivial matter, but important nonetheless. I could not help but notice the vast number of soldiers following our queen,” Gods, she hoped she pulled off enough sincerity for these two words, “and I wondered how you were stocking and handing out your _own_ food supplies.”

“How are the Northern resources going?” The change in his tone was unmistakable.

“Well enough, my lord,” she retorted, allowing a bit a sharpness to transpire in her own voice. It should convey ‘I want answers and I won’t be distracted’ clearly enough. Tyrion’s features tensed in response, indicating he received the message.

“We won’t abuse of your hospitality. I reckon our own food supplies will arrive shortly.”

She didn’t quite believe him, but she figured she made her point. He knew she wasn’t going to let them use the North resources without her having to beg them off. He will have to think of a solution for the problem she plainly pointed out and she trusted his capacities in finding one. All in all, this was a small success. “I didn’t doubt they would,” she added in a kinder tone. “I remember how successful you were, being Joffrey’s Hand. I know our queen made the right choice in giving you back this position.” There! Her sincere compliment seemed to please him. Indeed, there was no need to part on bad terms.

When he smiled slightly and raised his cup once more, “Here’s to finally showing off to the world our smart minds!” she didn’t have to fake her own smile when she followed him, saying the words back.

==--==

An hour later, and the satisfaction of her conversation with Tyrion had completely faded away. She was pacing in her solar, worrying her bottom lip. Jon was not here. He had promised he would come this evening and he didn’t. Yet.

Don’t be such a fool, Sansa, she chastised herself. He did warn her that Bran and Sam wanted to talk to him. It was probably about the Great War – maybe they discovered a way to kill dead men that did not involve burning, she mused. Because if Sansa was honest with herself – and she tried to always be – she wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the idea of three dragons burning frozen lands, trees and houses at the beginning of the _worst winter we’ve seen since a hundred years_.

The three of them could also be speaking about another matter entirely. Bran hadn’t been the most talkative when it was just him and her; but she had seen him open up with Arya, so they could be talking about what they’ve been through. Arya told her Bran had gone beyond the wall, just like Jon had and Sam probably too. Maybe Jon was only lost in his memories or in some story or other of battles, snowy lands and wildings – she remembered Bran always favored wildings’ stories when he was a child.

Or they could be talking about someone in particular. Sansa toyed with the idea that it could be her, not sure if she was pleased or anxious should it be happening. If it was the case, she hoped Bran and Sam would only relay good things. Though she couldn’t possibly think of anything she did in Samwell Tarly’s presence that could be interpreted in a specific manner. For as far as their interactions had gone, she had welcomed him and his family, showed them where they would be sleeping, promised his companion – Gilly, her name was – that she’d find her some fabric for their son and indicated him where Bran’s chambers were.

As for her brother, she had tried to go talk to him several times but he often was… having visions by the heart tree or locked up in his rooms. As for her, well, she hadn’t had that much free-time. And she could admit she had rather spent that free time perfecting her daily tasks, sewing together warm clothes, mending Arya’s – and the gods knew just how many holes that girl could have in her shirts and breeches without minding it – or sleeping.  
Did that make her a bad sister? Had Bran come to resent her for not making more time for him?

Well, it’s too late to worry about that now. If Bran resented her, he probably told Jon all about it already, and there was nothing she could do.  
Still, she promised herself she would go and spend an hour with her little brother the following morning. Even if it would mean sitting in a chair and watching him immobile and mute, his eyes completely white, having a vision. Even if it would mean having fits of panic from time to time because the silence and inaction would remind her of the days she spent locked in her childhood’s bedroom when she was married to Ramsay. He used to enjoy watching her nervous, staying covered in the shadows, without her knowing he was here at first and then-stop. Whatever it was that her mind supplied, she would endure it, for Bran.

So all in all, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a good thing to have Bran, Samwell Tarly and Jon talk about her. Which they probably didn’t, she thought, because they have other things to do than waste their breaths discussing someone as pointless as her. Why would she want to be discussed by them, anyway? She had other things to do, like… waiting like a fool for Jon to come back home only to have him ignore her for Daenerys Targaryen.

She thought she had prepared herself for that eventuality, spent hours turning in her bed debating on how she should react. It was just so unexpected, to have Jon fall in love with her! Truth was, she never wondered what sort of person he would fall for, but had she, she was certain it would’ve be someone very different from a dragon wannabe queen.

First of all, she seethed inside, glad to vent out her frustrations on this matter, she was from the South. Well, she wasn’t even from Westeros, but as a resident of Westeros, she was from the South. Sansa could relate a little bit: South could be considered attractive. It was warmer, more exotic and she guessed the lightness of the dresses and intricacy of headdresses could have its own kind of appeal on men too, and not only on a silly little girl. Jon was surely smarter than she had been and saw through all the glitter and the flamboyance. And Daenerys wasn’t any southern woman: she was the queen, the embodiment of it. She behaved exactly like a queen, just like Sansa had tried to do when she had been enamored of the southern lifestyle. And as far as she remembered, her haughty behavior had only brought scorn and disregard from her siblings.  
Moreover, Tormund had brought up once in a conversation a love interest of Jon, when he had been a member of the Night’s Watch. He didn’t say much, only that she hadn’t be very pretty – which Sansa didn’t take into account, because she had learnt the hard way beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and if Jon had been in love, then surely she would have been beautiful in his eyes – but had been very skilled with a bow and unmatched by the other women in hunting and killing crows. To Sansa, it did not sound much like Daenerys Targaryen.

She didn’t spend too much time in her company this afternoon, but the little she had had taught her two things: Daenerys Targaryen loves having all the attention on herself and expects complete devotion from her subjects. The spouting of her list of titles as an introduction and the display of one her dragon following suite a proof of that. Sansa really hoped it wasn’t who she really was, for otherwise she did not know how she would pretend she admired her as she wanted to be admired.

In fact, the more she thought about it – for Jon still wasn’t present – the more she found herself disliking her. And that was only after observing her with Jon for a few hours and all the insignificant details. How she sat in the former seat of the King, and made sure to sit him at her left, how she thrust her plate in a serving girl’s path to ensure she would be served first, how Jon tensed when she entered the room, how he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her… Her mind supplied again his reaction at the meeting’s beginning, how they were having an enjoyable conversation, just the two of them. She had been entirely engrossed in their familiarity, her attention only focused on him, having trouble believing he was again at her side, only for him to switch focus on his dragon queen – his lover if Tyrion was to be believed.

And why shouldn’t he? Sansa definitely thought they both were too different and that the queen was obviously undermining him, but she guessed he did not mind it as much when it was Daenerys Targaryen instead of her.

She was probably warming her bed. That’s what Littlefinger and Cersei had warned her about, wasn’t it? Men were so much more compliant when you yielded to their advances. “Your best weapon is the one between your legs,” another queen had told her so many years ago. Perhaps if she was braver, she would follow…  
No, she immediately interrupted herself. _I am not Cersei_. That was a sort of motto to her. Every occasion she felt herself questioning one course of action or another, or doing something she did not want to, she needed to reassure she wasn’t turning into a power-hungry, vengeance-obsessed person.

But what mattered is that Jon and Daenerys were laying together. Gods, maybe that was why he still hadn’t come to talk with her! She dreaded it will be her life from now on: she’ll have to get used to always come second, as a mere half-sister. The unbalance in her relationship with him would hurt her, as this afternoon had already shown, for she wanted to spend every waking moment with him and he didn’t, for she resented the dragon queen’s presence in his life and he welcomed it.

And who can blame him? The silver-haired woman was a beauty. She was fierce and strong. The scars she had were surely from battles, battles she saw with her own eyes and not because she was beaten down in front of a court on the whim of a King. She was fighting in the front line, perched on the most dangerous magical creature that ever lived while Sansa was knitting and sewing by a fire, unable to wield a bow or to come close to a dragon. 

Jon probably thought her weak and plain in comparison. And that was because she had never told him of her moments of panic, and she hid the worst of her own scars when they traveled from Castle Black to Winterfell, so he was still unaware of them. She couldn’t bear to imagine his reaction to them. Thankfully the worst of it was on her back and thighs. There was that awfully hideous one though, a thick red line on her right thigh that was still sensible to the touch, even a year after.

So, when she thought about it, it wasn’t surprising he’d prefer Daenerys to her. It wasn’t surprising she found herself so… so jealous of that foreign woman. 

The realization made her stop pacing, and for the first time since she had started thinking about it all, she took heed of the state she was in. She was breathing heavily, her shoulders and neck so tense it hurt her, her hands balled into fists with crescent marks of her nails etched into the skin of her palms. Her face was tear streaked, yet she wasn’t crying anymore – were it from self-pity or anger, she couldn’t distinguish anymore.

She forced herself to take deep breaths, and to regain a modicum of control over her actions. Jon still wasn’t here – she really started to think he must have forgotten or he must be in his queen’s… She shook her head, trying to clear it. Jon wasn’t here, but what would he see should he arrive at this instant. He would want to run in the other direction, just like when he had commented that she admired Cersei Lannister. What a way she had gone, telling him that! Daenerys Targaryen probably thought Cersei was just a brother-fucker ambitious and dishonorable woman, unworthy of any kind of admiration, just like he did.

Set on proving him that she did not, in fact, fail to recall every flaw of the official queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she quickly brushed aside the last remains of her… angry fit and marched straight to his chamber.

She did not wait for his affirmative answer and came barging into his room, claiming straight to the point, “I am actually aware that Cersei is a brother-fucker and an ambi-” before stopping abruptly. The sight of her Jon, sitting on his bed – mercifully alone – with red rimmed eyes and taking shaking breaths made her forget all about her silly little problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :) and sticking around until the end of the chapter. I hope you liked it!
> 
> (There will be more Jon/Sansa interaction in the next chapter – and the next one after that etc. – I promise)


	3. Both a Targaryen and a Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, there’s a lot more Jon/Sansa interaction in this chapter – though compared to the precedent, it wasn’t really… um… difficult to achieve
> 
> On a more serious note, please heed the tags. This chapter contains a few mentions of repercussions of physical abuse. Nothing actually happens but still, better safe than sorry.

“Sansa? Everything alright? Are you hurt?”

“Is there something wrong?”

They both started to question the other at the same time. 

Jon had immediately raised up from his bed, his hand closing around Longclaw, ready to use it at her first word. She was still standing with her hands awkwardly half-raised in the preparation of the little speech about Cersei she had planned to make. Her heart tightened at the surprised way he said her name, as if she was the last person he expected in his rooms when they had spent the most of their time in hers, when they ruled together. He’d probably welcome Daenerys Targaryen with open arms and a smile on his face, she sighed. How long since she last saw him smiling at her, she’d rather not dwell on it too much.

“What are you doing here?!” he exclaimed in an uncharacteristically high voice. She became aware of how nervous she was: her hands were clammy, her heart beating furiously in her chest, her mouth so dry she had to wet her lips twice before forming an answer. And his unwelcoming reaction was doing nothing to settle her own.

“I- I wanted to tell you that I do not idealize Cersei Lannister. I know how vile she was… is. I remember.”

“That’s it?”

Well, it did sound a bit ridiculous now that it was out in the open. But she did not regret coming to say them, for if she had not she wouldn’t have known about him. “Were you crying?” she asked softly.

He looked away from her searching gaze, focusing his attention on the ground, his curls falling around his face, hiding it partially from view. He seemed to ponder if he was actually going to tell her the truth or not, which was unnecessary since she knew very well what a face looked like after crying and she was set on obtaining the reasons. If it was because of the Lords, or because of that foreign whore…

“What… do you think of the Targaryens?” he muttered.

“Please, don’t try to change the subject,” she retorted, annoyed that he’d try so unsubtly to set aside her concerns. “How can I help you if you do not tell me anything? I can help you and I can make it better – whatever it is. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“You would actually help me by listening and answering me, just for once,” he said in the same hard voice he used as a King, like she was only his subject.

It made her upset, made her want to cry once more. She wasn’t going to though, not in front of him, not in front of anyone. She wouldn’t let him see how weak he made her.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I’d like you to be honest. I’d like people to stop lying to me all the bleeding time!” He cried out, his voice breaking at the end. “Yeah, that’s it. I’d like to have an honest answer to my question, Lady Stark.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” she retorted coldly in order to hide the piercing pain his words caused her.   
What had she done? What had he heard? Maybe he had been present in her room, when she was ranting about Daenerys. Maybe she had spoken aloud, and he heard her say horrible things about his lover, and now he was protecting _her_. 

“Please, tell me what’s wrong?” She loathed begging, for it brought so many awful memories back, yet she would, for him.

He didn’t answer her right away, instead he watched her with _that_ expression, the one that made her heart break in tandem with his. She took a hesitant step toward him, wanting for nothing else than to take him into her arms and give him comfort; to make him forget about whatever it was – for nothing, absolutely nothing, was worth his tormented expression.

“There is nothing you can do to help me,” he said with a final intonation. He even turned his back at her, signaling the end of the discussion.

“What do you mean?” She was starting to feel she should be worried. Her increasing panic made her raise her voice once more, “Speak to me, by the gods! It’s like I’m talking to a deaf man! If you want me to answer, then start asking clear questions. You promised we would talk this evening, remember? You promised we’ll work things out together!”

“Aye. And we will! Just-”

“And how are we supposed to work together if we don’t say anything to each other? Since you came back, we barely talked…”

“I only came back a few hours ago!”

“But you were gone for moons! And the only thing I heard from you was less than a fortnight ago, when you wrote you bent the knee to a Targaryen when you know, _you know_ , what that family did to our family! They burned our grandfather, they murdered our uncle, and do I have to remind you what happened to our aunt? They all are crazy, self-centered people!” She choked the rest of her little speech when she took heed of his pale, closed off face. Immediately, she wished to go back in time and prevent herself for saying those awful words about his lover family’s past. 

He did not look angry yet, but he surely would be very soon.

Her carefully tucked away instincts took over and she closed her eyes, steeling herself for the soon-to-come blows. She knew Jon had promised her he would never hurt her, nor let anyone do it; but she also was aware that there was only so much a man could take before anger blurred his sense of duty. Insulting his love interest’s family, that crossed a line.

She had spent weeks reveling in the fact that she couldn’t picture him hitting her, just after their reunion. It had been such a welcomed change, after Baelish and the Kingsguard and Joffrey and Ramsay, to be able to say anything that came to her mind without fearing for the consequences. She should have known better.

“Please leave me alone,” Jon said at last, in a voice so strangled she doubted she heard him correctly.

She opened her eyes, saw that he had his back to her again but that his entire body was shaking. Still, she did not want to push her luck, so she ran back to her rooms and allowed her tears to flow only when she was safely burrowed in her own bed, Ghost laying by the fire, guilt eating her heart.

 

To her measured relief, it was that guilt that haunted her thoughts instead of reminiscence of her time passed with Ramsay when she sat in Bran’s chambers the following morning. She had made good on her self-promise of the previous evening to spend more time with her little brother and had knocked at his door first hour in the morning.

She was now seated in one of the two chairs across the table, facing him, studying him whilst he was… having a vision she supposed; while wondering at the same time how she was going to get Jon to listen to her apologies. She deeply regretted the way last night conversation had happened; she shouldn’t have insisted when it was clear that he had been too preoccupied to listen to her. He hadn’t come to her chambers for a good reason, and she should’ve respected that – or, well, show him more that she respected his decisions. That was what she failed at, wasn’t it? She bet Daenerys Targaryen didn’t.

The plainly spoken “Enter” startled her out of her morose thoughts. She hadn’t expected anyone else to come visit while she was here, but Bran did not look surprised by the interruption.

Someone precipitately came into the room, “We need to organize a meeting with the Lords after lunchtime and you need to be present,” Sansa winced, both at the urgent tone of the news and the fact that Jon was in the same room as her much too soon for his anger to have abated. Perhaps if she made herself scarce… “I just received a raven from Karhold, they’re with the survivors of the Watch. They arrived by boat a few days prior. Now we have enough proof the Wall has fallen, we need to…”

“The Wall has fallen?” Sansa couldn’t help but intervene. This was a primordial matter, surpassing the very present tension between her and Jon, and calling for the united front of the Warden of the North and the Lady of Winterfell.

“Sansa… I-I did not know you were here.”

“I don’t know why she’s here either,” her little brother added, turning his attention to her.

“We haven’t had much occasion to talk just the two of us, since your return. I missed you, is all. And I figured I should change that. But I can go away if you’d rather talk about something that doesn’t…”

“Please, no!” Jon interrupted her, blocking her path as she had started to leave the room. “Don’t leave on my account. In fact, I’ll… I’ll go. Yeah, if you two have barely talked since you were reunited then…”

“From what I understood,” Bran cut in, addressing them both, “the two of you haven’t really talked much either.” Then he turned his attention back on Jon only, “You should tell her.”

And without a word more, his eyes turned white again and he remained immobile, leaving them with a semblance of privacy. There was an awkward tension as they both stared at each other, sitting down on the two remaining chairs, no one daring to speak first. Finally, Sansa took the plunge, choosing to start with placating whatever remained of last night’s dispute.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want. I understand you don’t owe me anything and I’m sorry I was so insensitive last night.” She finished her apology with a hopeful smile, wishing the tension would break.

“Thank you, Sansa,” and those three little words brightened her day. “I apologize too, if I came off too strong. I mean… I know I came off too harsh, but it wasn’t against you. Hope you can forgive me, for that too,” he added after a small pause, softly smiling back at her. “I’m not very good at talking about… feelings and stuff.”

They did not speak a word for a long moment, instead altered between reveling in each other’s company – at last Sansa did, but he never made a move to leave her, so she figured he did not mind staying with her – and smiling widely at each other. For once, Sansa was content to just sit in silence. She wasn’t even thinking of anything in particular; just looking over him. It was a quiet, peaceful moment, stolen between two important meetings and preparation of a war they weren’t sure to win.

So, just like every quiet, peaceful, stolen moment between them, it ended as soon as it began. But for once, it wasn’t because of an external intervention. In fact, Jon’s thumb had been absentmindedly brushing circles over the back of his other hand, and Sansa was wishing she was daring enough to take his hand in hers, to physically show him the moral support he seemed to crave. However, the movement brought her attention on a raw red line, poking out of his sleeve.

“How did this happen?” she asked, disappointed to have to break the spell. It looked like a cut, but too old for it to have happened only the day before. “Did you have a fight in King’s Landing?”  
Brienne hadn’t told her about it, but then she surely hadn’t followed Jon around all day. Sansa was getting more anxious the longer he took to shake himself from his own thoughts, understand she was the one speaking to him, and that she expected an answer.

And that one, when it came, did not please her at all. She let him finish relating his ‘expedition beyond the wall’ while inwardly fuming; though some it must have shown in her eyes for he tried to adapt his recalling to soften everything. Indeed, what had started described as a ‘mission’, he made it sound like it ended as nothing more than a stroll between a few comrades.

“He’s leaving out quite a few moments,” Bran pointed out, ignoring the glower Jon threw his way. “He nearly died back there. First from the cold, then from the wights which would’ve killed him had our uncle Benjen not came in time.”

“You nearly died? Twice?” Her voice was quavering, her heart torn apart between immense relief at having him alive and warm with her and furious anger, first at not knowing she came this close of losing him forever, and then at that queen who sent him away beyond the wall to capture a stupid wight to ensure a stupid ceasefire with Cersei. She endangered him…

“Don’t worry about that, Sansa. I’m alright now. I’m here and I’m back home with you and… please don’t start crying,” she heard Jon say, but she wasn’t paying attention.

That… that wench dared to endanger him, dared to let him go on a reckless mission to bring her back some kind of trophy. She then left him to die alone, facing an army of thousands dead men. 

And she claimed she _loved_ him.   
And he loved her back. 

When she undermined him in front of everyone; when she made him give up his home, his safe haven to obtain her help; when she refused to believe him until he brought her a physical proof that they were all threatened; when she was a stranger who had no idea how wonderful he was, how brave and gentle and strong; while Sansa…  
Sansa was here. She had always supported him as a ruler, she made sure he felt at home in their home, she believed him the first time he evoked the Night King’s existence and she worked as hard as everyone else to make sure they survived this war.  
She knew all his qualities, she acknowledged his flaws and she loved him for all of them, for they completed her own almost to perfection.

She loved him, _loved him, **loved** him_.

Gods, what’s happening to me, she thought as a sob raked through her body at the realization. She loved him as her friend, her partner. As a woman loved a man.  
And he’s my brother. The ugly truth pointed its head, clearing her mind with such force she expelled all the air in a trait, as if she had been punched in the belly.

“It’s alright, sweet one. I’ll protect you, I promise. Whatever it is, whatever you ask, I’ll do it,” Jon’s voice reached her conscience through the meltdown that was her head at the moment. She then realized he was kneeling beside her, an arm wrapped across her back, holding her close against him, her own clinging onto him, her head nestled in the junction between his head and shoulder, his hand cradling her cheek and stroking it gently.

She closed her eyes, savoring the instant with a new-found intent. Every touch, every breath seemed decupled and she found herself aware even of the tickling sensation of his hair against her cheek or the sound of her blood coursing in her veins. When she found herself composed enough, she raised her head back up, offering him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she chuckled faintly, standing up hoping to regain some decency.

“You had to see me at my worst, yesterday. You know you can count on me, too. Always,” he added, his face very intent. He cleared his throat before muttering something about needing to go speak with the smith. She remained standing and smiling until he shut the door behind him. Then, Sansa stroked Bran’s hair once, before also fleeing the room.

She hurried back to her solar very much aware that while she had never felt as free as she did now, her whole world had just crashed down.

==--==

She kept observing herself in the mirror, tracking a change, a modification on her face that would betray the sin of her thoughts. Nothing was different though. Her face remained pretty, despite the dishonorable being hiding behind it. But then, she had also learnt the hard way that a good face did not mean a good person, and vice versa.

She had called back in her mind every moment they had shared, every one of her reactions when his name had been uttered, every emotion that went through her when he was standing close to her, when he had been gone, when he had returned, when he had been with the dragon queen; and she felt ashamed.

Ashamed at her feelings, but also at the fact that she hadn’t known. She, who prided herself on deciphering every little clue and who had been taught to anticipate and scheme and analyze from the bests, had let those unnatural feelings develop unnoticed. And now that she acknowledged them, and tried to smash them down, they were too strong to be set aside or ignored.

She’d have to live with them, with the knowledge that she had unrequited feeling for her half-brother. Somehow in all this mess, she found a little comfort in the fact that he was only her half-sibling. That was the thin thread that still separated her from Cersei. It wasn’t much, but she’d take anything that still pointed out the differences with the woman with whom she shared, to her despair, so many similarities.

“I’m not Cersei,” she told her reflection. Her own voice sounded unsure even to her ears, so she decided to keep saying this until she started to believe it.

There was still one last gigantic difference between the two of them, she reasoned. Cersei had acted on her feelings and had actually had three children to attest of them. Sansa will never do anything. She’ll gladly take that secret to her grave, for everybody’s sake. For love was silly, made everyone involved in it either suffer or do unspeakable things. That kind of love had brought her nothing but pain and deception – with Joffrey and Ser Loras, with the short fantasy of being able to fall in love with her cousin.  
She had been forced to acknowledge on her wedding night that she was meant to live her life without being loved. She had thought she had been too broken to be in love again. Then she had reunited with Jon, and he showed her that she was wrong for the former. It is only fitting he’d be the one to show her wrong for the latter too.

She blinked away the tears that threatened to fall down. She’ll remain humbled and eternally grateful of his presence in her life, for he was the one who comforted her when she had been at her lowest, the one who proved her wrong by overriding all her low expectations of basic human relationships, the one who gave her faith. Not in any gods, not anymore, nor in false promises of a brighter future, but in him. He had never let her down, and she flat-out refused to consider him not returning her gross want – which he was unaware of, and please let it remain that way forever – a delusion. 

She was the one betraying him. By wishing there was something more in his looks, his touch, his words. All of these which he so innocently blessed her with. By wanting that foreign wench out of his life.

Right now, though, she wanted to be able to confide with someone, more than anything else. She feared she wouldn’t be strong enough to not spill it all to Jon or let something slip in her mask. He couldn’t know, and she knew that no one could either. Wanting to confide with someone was a folly, for who could she trust with her shame? Who would never judge her, beside Jon himself?

“Sansa,” an angry growl lifted her from her thoughts, “I need to talk to you.”

“What is it?” she said, closing the door after Arya. She then faced her sister, mildly worried about the glare she sent her way.

“It’s been a day since he came back, and he’s still stuck with her. Everywhere! And you’re doing nothing! And the other one’s not concerned ‘bout it! And I’m turning mad!”

“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying,” she spoke in a calming tone, her mind forced to stop thinking about Jon and focus on her sister’s issue, “Who are ‘he’ and ‘she’ and ‘other’?”

Arya listened to her and stopped pacing, “Jon and the mad queen have been joined at the hip since they came here. I didn’t say anything ‘cause I thought you would react, but you’re not doing anything either. I mean, he helped her got down of her horse before looking at us. Have you forgotten?”

_Believe me, Arya. I have not._

But she couldn’t answer that, especially in the way she wanted to, it would only raise questions. She decided to put on her show, “I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

“You don’t?”

_Of course I do. He’s close to her, he’s enamored with that girl and not with me._ “No.”

“She’s a Targaryen!”

“She’s our ally.”

“Stop talking like that! Like everything’s fine! It’s not! Situation’s grave! She’s trying to seduce him!”

Sansa chuckled bitterly at that – so much for taking her mind off things. “She’s done a lot more than trying to.”

That seemed to shock Arya into silence. Sansa was at least comforted by the fact that she wasn’t the only one surprised at the mention of Jon bedding the dragon queen. It was such a strange thought, because “No. Jon would never do that.”

Sansa stretched her lips in what was supposed to be a smile at that; she and her sister weren’t that different after all. At least not with the things that mattered most. “Listen, I know it’s none of our business but” Everything before the word but is horseshit, that’s what Father used to say “a marriage alliance between them is a sensible idea. And it’s better if the two parties are… compatible in every area.”

“She’s a Targaryen!” Arya shouted, glaring when Sansa shushed her. Her bedroom was a private place, but you never knew who might be passing in the corridors.

“I know that,” she whispered, her hand holding her sister’s, “and I totally agree with you. I don’t want Jon to marry her and to leave us. But I also know that you make peace with your enemies, not your friends. Targaryens are hated in the North, but she is our ally now, our **only** ally. What better way to cement an alliance than with a wedding?”

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Arya had looked so incensed toward the dragon queen _and_ Jon. Now she still looked angry, but she had calmed herself. Sansa was only glad she went to talk to her and had not happened on Daenerys on her way.

“I hate it when you make sense. ‘Specially when I don’t want you to,” she sighed loudly, her brows frowning once more. “I still don’t see why he’d fuck her.”

“Arya!” she chastised, due to habit. In truth she really, really did not intend to go down that road. Because for all her talk of love and want, she couldn’t imagine Jon ever taking pleasure at hurting someone like that. She knew, in theory, that he did since she was told he’d taken the dragon queen to his bed, but it was so far from the kind man she also knew he was that she couldn’t wrap her head around it.

“Sorry, sorry. Bad habit. Blame Sandor Clegane. What about-”

Sensing she was going to elaborate on the idea of a Jon and Daenerys marriage, Sansa saw the first opportunity and snatched it without question. The following hour was thus filled with Arya telling her stories about the time she spent with Sandor Clegane, making Sansa wish she could see him again.

==--==

The rest of the day was dedicated at her work, preparing the afternoon meeting, then attending said meeting, keeping a kind face in front of the invader – both of the North and of Jon’s heart – and listening to the panicky din of the Lords when news from the Wall were announced.

At least that day was over, and she was enjoying a nice moment in Bran’s chamber with Jon and Arya. Her sister was still brooding over their morning conversation and had rebuffed Jon’s attempt at starting one with her quite forcefully. Sansa was certain that she’ll quickly forgive him for associating with a Targaryen, for he was her brother and they were at war. Jon was brooding more than usual and, with Bran, they both seemed lost in their own thoughts and she reveled in the opportunity to have her whole family reunited, without Targaryens or wights between them.

“I guess I should tell you,” Jon said out of the blue. Bran nodded once, hinting that he already knew what Jon was talking about; Arya only grunted in response, but Sansa could see the curiosity in her eyes; and she willed her face to remain neutral, hiding the squeeze that made her heart at the simple sound of his voice. 

This was going to turn very complicated, very soon.

“I don’t really know where to start…”

“There’s no need”, Arya interrupted him, looking pointedly at Sansa, “We already know what you’re going to announce.” Sansa felt herself go pale at the realization. Gods, that was it, wasn’t it? He was going to tell them he’ll be marrying the dragon queen after the war, and she will have to put on a smile and be happy for him and be delighted to welcome _her_ in her family, as her sister.

However, instead of the broad smile and crinkling eyes she expected he’d have for this conversation, he let out a shaky breath and turned pleading eyes to her. That’s what made them understand the situation was dire.

“Start with the beginning,” she said in a calming manner. He looked terrified – of them, her heart supplied – and she couldn’t bear it.

He offered a small smile that screamed “Please don’t hate me” and started talking. The name of Daenerys wasn’t uttered once, but the Targaryen one was, and several times. His gaze switched from her, to Arya, to Bran, to the tip of his boots while Sansa’s was fixed on him and did not bulge.

She did not listen acutely to his words, but their meaning burnt its way into her memory.  
Not a Snow, a Targaryen.  
Not her half-brother, but her cousin.

He shared more blood with Daenerys Targaryen than with her.  
There was a newfound possibility of a them.

Her relief was ineffable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you liked it, and aren’t too angry for what _didn’t_ happen x)


	4. You like me well enough. I love you, period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m leaving you with the chapter…
> 
> (This is me trying to build suspense – very badly)
> 
>  
> 
> (Please read the ending note, when you finish reading this chapter.)

All her troubles volatilized following the turning point that was that Revelation. For the first time, in very long time, she felt that the universe smiled upon her. All the tension and the worries lifted from her shoulders, and for a blissful moment, she was three-and-ten again; gleeful, hopeful and believing the world was hers to take.

“You seem quite happy this morning, my lady,” Tyrion noted with a small smile. She tried to restrain herself and not beam back at him. She wasn’t sure she succeeded.

“It… occurred to me that our chances to win this war are high, and grow higher each passing hour,” she remarked, inclining her head to where men, women, boys and girls were training, sparring or learning how to shoot arrows. They all were concentrated on their tasks, but many still took time to pause and bow to her, as she was walking with Tyrion among them.

“Indeed. The dragons will play a big part in it. Have you seen them close?”

“I saw the one who flew very close to Winterfell on the day you arrived. It was more than enough for me. I enjoyed reading stories about them when I was a girl, now they do seem scarier than amazing.”

“They are. I can admit to you that I was terrified the first time I came close enough to touch them. The truth is, it was the first and only time. Only their mother can approach them, and your brother, from what I heard.”

“Bran went to see the dragons?” She blurted out, astonished he did not mention it – neither yesterday, nor last evening, nor this morning, when she came back to his bedroom.

“My bad, I guess I should be more precise!” He laughed while she felt all blood leave her face. She was too carefree, she needed to focus again. The game hasn’t stopped. “Your half-brother, when he was at Dragonstone. I heard he pet Drogon – the biggest of them, the black one.”

“That sounds terrifying!” she exclaimed, unsettled between fear for Jon’s reckless actions and admiration at those. “What are the names of the two others?”

Tyrion looked annoyed. “The green one is named Rhaegal, after her brother. The other’s, who died, name was Viserion, after her other brother.”

“One of them died? How?” she asked, making herself sound appalled.

“I don’t know, but you shouldn’t mention it in front of our queen. She’s still in mourning. She considers them as her children, and Viserion’s death was a hard blow.”

“I understand.”

She did not. Not at all. She only understood that those dragons were good weapons against the Night King and the army of the dead, and that their use should stop at that. Anyway, they can be killed, which was a relief.

They walked in a comfortable silence for a time, until they happened on a peculiar scene that made Sansa’s heart tighten for two very different reasons.

“Our queen is planning to fight as a foot soldier in the war?” she said through clenched teeth.

“Certainly not,” Tyrion answered in the same tone.

They both strode to the training duo. Jon was showing his aunt – _his aunt_ – some sword moves, standing too close to a very closely blood relative and resting his hand on her upper arm. She was looking at him with big doe-like eyes and hanging on his every word.

“Your Grace, you shouldn’t be here in the wintry morning without at least a warmer cloak. Please allow me to escort you back into your solar. There is much to be done concerning the matters we’ve talked about.”

Tyrion’s intervention broke the spell and seemed to remind Jon of decency, for he immediately took two steps back, standing in a more appropriate manner.

“Jon was showing me some sword’s tricks.” The Targaryen girl dismissed her Hand’s request, instead turning to her. “Lady Sansa, I am very glad to see you at last,” she smiled, too widely for it to be sincere. “Since we arrived, I barely saw you but in crowded places. You’ll join myself and Missandei for a moment in my solar soon, I hope.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” she answered the non-request, mentally adding that, if she barely left her solar, it was because of the work that had to be done.

“Sword tricks?” Tyrion pointed out, “that doesn’t sound very honorable for Ned Stark’s son. And I don’t see the use of teaching our queen such ‘tricks’ for she will never had any opportunity to make them.”

“It’s just in case.”

“In case of what? You shouldn’t set a foot on the battlefield, you’ll be riding Drogon and-”

“That’s no concern of yours,” the dragon queen interrupted in a warning tone, surprising Sansa. Tyrion’s concerns made sense. “Jon ordered every man, woman, boy and girl to fight. It’s enough shame for me that you won’t, the people need to see _I_ will.”

Sansa recoiled at that. Was it what the people thought about her, too? It was true: everybody was learning how to wield a sword, thrust a spear or shoot an arrow. Everybody in the North but her. Surely, she should, too. How could she expect the other women who, just like her, had never learn how to fight in the battlefield to follow Jon’s demand when she did not.

She may not want to, but it wasn’t as if they had much choice. She needed to be strong, she needed to be brave… she needed to be a good ruler and learn how to fight. It looked terribly harsh, but it was a part of the duty she owed to her people.

“You are right, Your Grace.” _You are a harmless girl. Remember._ “Your bravery is unprecedented. I precisely came down from my solar to start learning how to… use weapons but I’m finding myself at a loss. Perhaps you could advise me on which one I should begin with?”

“What?” Jon laughed. “Sansa, you’re not learning how to fight.”

“Why not?” She retorted, annoyed at the lightness of his sentence. Did he think her uncapable and unwilling to defend her people?

“Because you’re not going to fight,” His voice had turned serious, final.

“Why not?” she repeated, outrage replacing annoyance.

“What do you mean ‘why not’? Because you’re not a fighter, you never were! Your place is not on a battlefield, it’s too dangerous!”

“Oh, so my place is sitting by the fireplace, knitting while men fight for me? This is the war of the living against the dead, Jon, you said it yourself. You also said we needed every person old enough to wield a sword! I can learn!”

“No. You’re not going to fight, I won’t let you. It’s too late anyway, we’re probably marching in a fortnight. There is no time for this.”

Oh, but there is time to start teaching Daenerys Targaryen how to wield a sword in the middle of the courtyard, pawing at her for all to see!

She felt humiliated, that he would so plainly take time to teach things to the Targaryen girl, making everyone see that the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms was as fearless as the stories and the songs say, while loudly denying her the chance to be of use for her loved ones.

“I’m sure you’ll find some useful things to do during that time, Lady Stark. Missandei will stay behind, too, so at last you’ll have her company. And my Hand’s,” the queen said. Then she turned back to Jon, who still hadn’t looked away from Sansa, still looking pale from their fight “Shall we continue?”

So she was forced to watch them go back into their previous position, as if she had never been there. She was forced to watch every encouragement tumbling from Jon’s lips, every smile from Daenerys’. It did not take much time before it was enough.

She looked back at Tyrion and found him frowning at her. “Quite a protector, indeed,” he simply muttered before walking back to the castle, leaving her alone.

==--==

Her hopeful phase hadn’t been a lasting one, Sansa bitterly thought. Jon obviously was very attached to his queen. And who could blame him, really? She was his closest family, now. And in time of war, one cannot be faulted for wanting to spend time with their closest family.

And that was exactly what she should do. She felt she worked enough for years for nothing, since it did not help the people who were actually working to win the war. She stood up and left her solar, set on finding Arya and tell her everything about Jon. Surely her sister will help her find a way.

She did not find her sister in the training yard, which surprised her since she had been persuaded it would be the only place she could be.

“Lady Sansa!” someone cried her name. Brienne appeared in her line of sight.

“Brienne, good! Have you seen my sister?”

“She’s in her chamber, my lady.” Strangely, that made Sansa halt for a moment. Brienne looked like she wanted to tell her something and she watched her closely but with a strange look, as if a second head had sprouted from her neck during the night.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s probable stupid and… It’s just that… I wondered if you were satisfied with me?”

Now that was unexpected. “Of course. I am so grateful that you are my friend, Brienne. I’m sorry I’ve been trenched alone in my solar. I know! Why don’t we eat together, this evening? Just you and me, and no talk of war or politics. Does that sound alright with you?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t what I meant. But of course, yes, I’ll be happy to dine with you.”

“Wonderful. We’ll walk together after the meeting. What did you mean then?”

“Uh… Your half-brother came to me about an hour ago, he… was very insistent in making sure I wasn’t going to teach you how to use a sword. Do you feel endangered, my lady?”

She let out a long sigh, “Absolutely not.”

“Very well, then.”

Brienne smiled at her one last time, appeased, and they parted.

The next face she came across, however, didn’t appear at peace at all, least of all smiling. Arya stood in her chamber as if she was ready to fight her and looked at her with the same face she used what she called ‘the game of faces’ or something. It unsettled her just as much as it did the first time. Seems like sisterly confidences will have to wait.

“What is it?” she asked softly. Her sister was angry, it would solve nothing if they both ended up threatening each other.

“I saw you talking with Jon this morning,” was the curt response.

“And?”

“Haven’t you heard what Bran told us yesterday? Just after the little talk we had about him?”

“And?”

“And?!” Her laugh was devoid of emotions, chilling. “Think about it for three seconds! He’s a Targaryen. A Targaryen who bent the knee to another Targaryen. A Targaryen who’s fucking another Targaryen and wanting to keep it very hush hush. What does it look like?”

“Why should it be any different than when it was a Snow bending the knee to a Targaryen? We bent the knee, too.”

“Yeah, because she has dragons. But it looks like he had never been a Snow. What if he knew of his real blood? What if he knew all that before bending the knee?”

“He didn’t. Jon would never do that. I know he wouldn’t.”

“There’s a lot of things I thought I knew, too. But apparently I was wrong.”

“Arya…” Sansa started, not knowing what she was going to say.

“I was wrong to think Father was the most honorable man that ever existed! I was wrong to think that being no-one would cure all my problems and I’d finally stop hurting! I was wrong to think that you’d be the one to betray our family! I was wrong to still think you were wrong when you told me he was on the mad queen’s side!”

“Don’t say that! And especially not so loudly!” she whispered furiously, clamping her hand over her little sister’s mouth. “What if someone hears you? I know you can defend yourself – but please think of us too. Of me, and Bran, and Jon.”

“I won’t think about Jon.”

“He’s your blood, Arya.”

“He’s not. He’s a traitor. He betrayed our family by staying close to the mad queen. I know you think he’s doing all this because he _has_ to, only for that alliance, but that’s not true. I heard things, things her soldiers whisper between them. It doesn’t sound good, Sansa. She’s got Targaryen blood in her, and it’s going to show up in her actions. Sooner or later. Just like it will for Jon. Or should I say Aegon? One way or another, blood always win.”

That left her speechless. She wanted to defend Jon’s actions, but it was true that there was still a lot she did not know. He never tells her anything. He always thinks that keeping it all bottled up in himself is the best way to protect her. Arya made several good points: why would Jon keep close to the dragon queen after an alliance is already secure? Why did he stay _that kind_ of close after knowing they were kin?

“Jon would never betray us,” she said again, for her benefit as much as her sister’s. “He’s doing what is best. And if he… loves the dragon queen, then we must stand beside him – beside them. Our family is scattered enough as it is.”

“Do it if you want, but I won’t pretend. And when the time comes to choose, I’ll pick the Stark side. So will the Northerners.” She paused, observed her from head to toes, before remarking suspiciously “You’re very lenient with him.”

It sounded like a threat as much as an off-hand comment, but it still threw Sansa on edge. She opened her mouth, trying to ignore the sudden want to shake Arya until she saw reason. Fortunately, the door opened to reveal Brienne, preventing her from having to do just that.

“Lady Sansa, the remaining brothers of the Night’s Watch, the Karstarks and the Umbers’ people have just arrived. They’re in the courtyard with the King.”

Sansa heard Arya’s sigh at her precipitation, but she paid that no mind. Those people probably fled the army of the dead, which mean they did not have time for silly familial quarrels. She hoped her sister will understand that, sooner rather than later, and strode to the courtyard. Just like Brienne said, Jon and Sam were already present, and talking with Tormund and the kind man she met at Castle Black – what was his name again? Edder? Ammed? – a consequent group of people, nobles and common folk and wildings, standing awkwardly around them.

Sansa addressed them first. “I’m glad you all arrived mostly unharmed. There are families in Wintertown and in the vicinity who have a bed or two to spare, please address Ser Laroy Batler – he’ll give you the name and addresses of the ones that still have place. I think you can find him near the stables, at this hour. For the others, there are large tents just outside the gates of Winterfell where you’ll be able to rest and keep warm. Hot food is served twice a day in different spots of the camp. Training also takes place all day long – also at many locations of the camp.”

She nodded once, signaling the end of her part and smiled at the numerous “Thank you, my lady” and “The gods bless you, Lady Stark”. It was only what was expected of her, but it warmed her heart to see the hours dedicated to her work were useful and meant something to these people. However, her heart felt like it was bursting when she saw the winning smile her sister sported, the proud looks on Brienne and Ser Davos’ faces and Jon looking at her with awe written all over his own face.

She walked toward the remaining men: Jon, Samwell Tarly, Ser Davos, two brothers of the Night’s Watch – one she remembered seeing but not his name, one she had never saw – and Tormund. She opened her mouth to welcome them more personally and indicate there wasn’t enough room for everybody when Arya interrupted her.

“Gendry?!” she shouted – shrieked really, which was a very strange thing for her – loud enough that everyone in a radius of three miles was now aware of the man’s name.

“Hello, m’lady,” the lad saluted her slowly, with a crooked smile.

“How do you two know-” Jon started, but his words died on his lips when he watched Arya fiercely embrace that stranger.

Sansa came closer to him, whispered “Who is he?” when it became apparent that her sister had no intention of letting him go anytime soon.

“He’s Robert Baratheon’s son. Davos knows him, and he helped us during the expedition beyond the wall. He didn’t tell me he knew Arya, though.”

“Well, warm reunion might be nice,” the kind man from the Night’s Watch cut off, “but we have a wight dragon flying toward us as we speak.”

“Right, Edd.”

Dread filled Sansa’s belly, and, from their looks, it was a shared feeling among everybody present. They all started walking toward the Great Hall, talking quietly with one another. Davos, Jon and Samwell Tarly led the way, followed by Edd, Tormund and this Gendry. The three women closed the march.

“I’m expecting explanations. Detailed ones.” Sansa warned her sister, looking pointedly at Gendry and smiling widely when Arya blushed slightly and nodded distractedly instead of furiously denying everything. Now that looked promising, she thought with a smile when she sat down at the main table.

The Lords, who had been called as soon as the sentry sighted the arrival of the most Northern houses, slowly filled the room. Sansa noted that her sister had immediately sat down next to that Gendry and was talking animatedly with him, oblivious of the rest of the room. Jon was exchanging words with Ser Jorah and Sam, but they each quickly went to different directions.

“I asked Ser Jorah to go find the queen and Tyrion. They must have missed the word around.” He told her after sitting down and taking a swig of his ale.

Yes, or your queen does enjoy being late to everything because it makes her feel important. She enjoys making us wait for her, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking.  
At last he seemed annoyed, too, of that childish behavior.

“They met, Sam and Jorah, did you know? Ah, and he confirmed me that you could him Sam, and not Lord Tarly. He said that was his father, and that’s not really someone… But whatever,” he shook his head, clearing it before taking another mouthful. “Thanks. For what you did just now, with the people. I haven’t thought about that and I should’ve.”

“It’s nothing. You’re worried with the Great War and all that goes with it. I worry about the rest.”

“You’re good at it,” he blurted out. “Ruling. Way better than I am-was. Everyone keeps telling me all the stuff you’ve done when I was away and it’s just - so much.” He paused, then sighed “Gods I’m so bad at this.”

“Thank you” she smiled widely at him, touched. He was maybe a bit rusty with the form, but the meaning was not lost on her. 

“You’re always thinking of all the little details. About what can happen after the war, if we win it. About the daily things and the people’s happiness. I heard how you made sure the Lords stayed too, even when I was gone for so long, and how you executed Baelish, and how you’re the reason we’re not starving. It’s amazing, Sansa. You – you’re amazing. I don’t know what I would do if you were not here.” He took a great gulp of air and continued in a much lower voice, “Especially now, with everything that happened these last days.”

“I’d never leave you.” She promised, her hand finding his, her heart relishing at the wonderful words he just told her, at the fact that he wasn’t removing his hand from her grasp but instead gently laying his other one on top of hers, their eyes never wavering. “Never, Jon. I’ll always stand beside you, no matter who your father is, no matter how you want to be called, no matter what title you have,” no matter if you want to marry your aunt and have a million babies. “We’re a pack, we’re in this together, no matter what,” she vowed, her eyes watering at the utmost grateful smile he bestowed upon her, knowing full well that if he heard the billion other promises she wanted to make to him, she’d promptly loose him.

“We’re in this together,” he echoed, his voice full of barely concealed wonderment. “There’s something I need to tell you, Sansa, but not here. Can we dine together, this evening?”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek in disappointment. “I already asked someone else to join me for this evening.” She chastised herself for suddenly wishing she hadn’t asked that.

Jon’s brows furrowed slightly, and his lips pursed. “Who?” Her heart jolted a little at his display of annoyance that they wouldn’t be able to talk more this evening.

“I’m sorry, I promised Brienne we’ll dine in my solar, just the two of us.”

His smile returned, “Of course. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” she confirmed, her heart beating faster when it understood that the reason her hand was still so warm was because Jon still hadn’t let go of it. His eyes followed hers and stayed on their joined hands for a moment before he raised them again and offered her a crooked smile.

“I’ll look forward to it, my lady” he whispered. He then raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t hate me!
> 
> I promise I’m not trying to assassinate Arya’s character, nor her relationship with Jon. I know everyone is persuaded she won’t react _that_ way with the revelation of Jon’s parentage, I just think that it’s precisely because she loves him so much and idealize him quite a lot (in my opinion) that she’s going to feel betrayed and, therefore, will bite back.
> 
> Heed the tags -> a happy ending is promised, guys :) but *hum* angst also is
> 
>  
> 
> I’m really, really curious to read your thoughts on the matter, though – on the chapter or the characterization or anything else.


	5. Home, Love, Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known to all that I first started this fic because I had about 10 scenes in mind, and that I had to put them out of my mind and on paper. We’re now at the beginning of chapter 5, more than 15.000 words in, and I can – at last – say that the first one of those scenes is in this chapter!  
> Mention of rape – Sansa’s thoughts are obviously very very wrong concerning the physical aspect of love.
> 
> Also, special thanks to everyone who commented and shared their thoughts on the last chapter.

Her hand was still tingling with the memory of Jon’s lips on it when the dragon queen decided to find her way to the Great Hall and grace them all with her presence. Ser Davos had intervened just before she forgot herself and made the folly of stealing a proper kiss in the middle of the Great Hall – the fact that the Lords, her friends, the household were all persuaded her half-brother was sitting next to her be damned.

Just like the other meetings, Jon remained mostly silent and let Tyrion and Ser Jorah deliver speeches after speeches on subjects they have no round idea of. The Northern Lords and Knights of the Vale were watching them warily and Arya was shooting daggers at the dragon queen and Sansa had the distinct impression that she wouldn’t mind if the daggers were in fact not metaphorical ones.

“Perhaps it’d be better if you were the one to tell them about… the undead dragon,” Sansa whispered into Jon’s ear, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight quaver in her voice. Gods, she was behaving like a little girl all over again.

Jon nodded and so, as soon as the current speech about the position of the Karhold’s “new fighters” – which was the term they agreed upon to designate the women and girls and elderly – in the battle came to an end, stood up and proceeded to announce the dreading news. This announcement called for explanations on _how the hell a dragon happened to be beyond the wall?_

“The capture of a wight was necessary, my Lords,” was the dragon queen answer and, as far as Sansa remembered, first intervention in a meeting.

And it seemed it was all the Lords had waited for to start intervening as much as they used to. Remarks and indignant comments could be heard from the erupted room, forming an indecipherable uproar. The dragon queen’s own justification was lost in all the noise. Even Jon’s repeated demands for calm were ignored in favor of more resenting comments on his involvement of it all.

Finally, it was Arya who voiced the main thought of the angered room. “Necessary for what exactly, Your Grace?” she called out, making everyone else fall silent.

“It was a proof, to convince Cersei to agree to a truce,” the silver haired answered dismissively.

“A truce for whom?” the new Lord Beren Hornwood asked, encouraged by the other lords.

“I need a-”

“There is no time to ponder on this, my lords, my ladies. The Night’s Watch and the wildings have arrived this afternoon, with news that the Wall has fallen. The army of the dead is coming to us. We’re marching for the war in a fortnight.”

“We can’t do that, Jon,” Daenerys Targaryen stated, raising Sansa’s anger. _That’s what undermining is! What are you gonna do?_

“We have no choice, Your Grace,” was the clipped response. Nothing else. He barely looked at her. He made no remark on how his decisions were not to be discussed in front of the Lords, or that he was the Warden of the North and, basically, the one who took all the decisions concerning its army.

“Cersei’s army is still not here.”

“Aye, and maybe they’ll come before we leave. If that’s the case, we’ll fight-”

“ _If that’s the case?_ She promised she’d send her army up North to help us. Are you not going to do something if they betray their promise to me?”

“Please, my queen…” Ser Jorah tried to intervene, in vain.

“Well, it’s not like we have the time to wait for them should they arrive a bit late.”

“I lost a dragon so that that truce could happen!”

“Your Grace, now is perhaps not the-” Tyrion’s tentative was also a failure. 

“Aye, and I’m very sorry for that but I lost four men beyond the wall. Good men. Men who could’ve helped us in the Great War.”

“Besides, you didn’t exactly lose a dragon,” Arya pointed out lazily. “You handed them a dragon. It’s still there, except now it’s on our enemy’s side.” She paused, looked over at Sansa whose expression begged her to stop, then shrugged. “For as far as I remember, the North wasn’t at war with Cersei Lannister. _We_ did not need that truce.”

The Lords made their approval known loudly and Sansa felt the blood drain from her face at the sight of Daenerys Targaryen. At this moment, the name her sister called her was truly fitting – she looked every bit the “mad queen”. And Sansa was too shocked to think of anything she could say to make it all stop before it was too late.

“Yet,” Jon said over his queen reply, effectively silencing her with one look. “The North had declared its independence, and Cersei Lannister wouldn’t have let that go unpunished. Sooner or later, she would have found the time and a way to subjugate us, while we would have been busy preparing for the war, or busy tending to our injured. Everyone that ever crossed her, she found a way to murder. And alone as we were, my lords, we did not stand a chance. Now, thanks to Daenerys Targaryen, we have two full-grown fire-breathing dragons against the army of the dead. And an army greater than we thought we’d ever had.”

Fortunately, that was enough to put back some reason in the Lords’ mind. Even Daenerys was obviously calmed down by that speech that reminded everyone how wonderful she was. Sansa barely noticed Jon had quoted her as she tried to swallow back the bitter taste in her mouth.

“Besides,” Sam chimed in, “there are ways of killing dragons. I’m sure I can find some…”

“No one is touching my dragons!” warned the queen. “Or they’ll end up burning.”

Is she actually serious? “You can’t!” Sansa cried, a dreadful feeling of déjà vu blurring her vision. She’d die before she’d let anything happen to the North, its people, her family – and Jon considered Sam his brother – be it from the hands of the army of the dead and its Night King or the army of the east and its Dragon Queen.

“I’m your queen, Lady Sansa. I’m fighting your war and-”

“Of course not, Sansa. Such a thing will never happen to our allies. Rest assured that our queen-”

“-Is completely mad, that’s what she is!”

“Enough! I do not allow you, Arya Stark, to insult me. Be grateful that you are Jon’s sister, I’ll forgive you this once. I won’t allow some lordling to find a way to kill them.”

Sansa deciphered a pattern here; the dragon queen wasn’t hurting or threatening anyone she thought was important to Jon. Well… “This is Lord Samwell Tarly, Your Grace,” she said in a sugar sweet voice. “He was a brother of the Night’s Watch with Jon and had been an invaluable support in the preparation for the war against the dead.”

“He was the one who cured me at the Citadel, my queen. I wouldn’t be alive if not for him. He saved me when every Maester thought me dead.”

“Bear Island is thus grateful for you, Lord Samwell Tarly, and thank you.” Lady Lyanna Mormont said, next to her cousin. The two of them were quiet the odd couple, and the first time they met had been very awkward for everyone involved. But they had formed a tentative connection – one that would only grow with time, Sansa was persuaded – and sat next to one another at every meeting.

The meeting was quickly aborted after that and Sansa left the room accompanied by Brienne. She cast a quick glance around the room – Jon was talking to Sam, Arya was leaving with Gendry and Lyanna Mormont and Tyrion was whispering something in his queen’s ear, looking nervous.

He should be. I hope he learns to keep her on a tight leash, because that was not the behavior of a good queen that had just been witnessed by all the Northern Houses.

“I’m curious to see which way Tyrion and Varys will find to tone down the dragon queen words of today,” she commented to her friend once the door was safely closed behind the kitchen girl who brought them their plates.

“Indeed, my – Sansa. It was… frightening to see her lose her cold-I mean cool composure.”

“It’s alright, we’re on our own here.” Sansa smiled and sat down, indicating Brienne to follow suit. “If we do not end up screaming at the top of our lungs, I don’t think anything that will be said in this room will ever… leave this room. At last I don’t plan to. But let’s talk about something else, there’s been enough politic for one day!”

A silence stretched, as they started enjoying the meal. “I’m afraid I don’t know what friends talk about when there’s no one else around.” Brienne sheepishly admitted.

Sansa tentatively broached the subject of their respective childhood, subject she had discovered was an effective way to break the ice. She shared her memories of Winterfell under her parents, of her siblings’ shenanigans, of her childhood spent between her Septa and her lady mother and, in return, Brienne told her of how it was to grow up in the Westerlands, on an island. Sansa told her of her amazement at seeing the sea for the first time in King’s Landing, Brienne of her own the first time she saw snow. Slowly, she watched her friend relax and conversation flowed more freely between them, their official positions toward the other and the world’s expectations left at the door.

Brienne was relating her journey from Robb’s camp to King’s Landing and Sansa noticed the soft intonation of her voice and the way her eyes did not looking straight into hers as they always did. She had some doubt since the last few weeks that Brienne had some man in her mind, but she hadn’t been able to discern who it was. Now though… Now it was plain to see.

And so… unexpected she couldn’t help a soft gasp past her lips, immediately regretting up when her friend stopped recounting some deed about Jaime Lannister to avert her eyes and blush slightly. “I’m so sorry, my lady. What must you think of me, now? I am still sworn to you, though. No matter what I may… feel for Ser Jaime.”

She was at a loss for words. On one hand, Brienne was her friend, and the most honorable person she’d ever know, and she wished for nothing less than her happiness. On the other hand, well, it was Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. The man who pushed a ten-year-old boy out of a window. The twin brother of Cersei.  
She was afraid that her friend was only heading straight for disappointment. And it was her duty towards Brienne to share her caution.

“Oh, I know all of this! I know he’ll never… consider this… Not with me,” Brienne indicated hurriedly.

“He told you that?” Sansa was outraged at his nerve.

“No, no,” she said, calming down Sansa’s righteous ire. “It’s been a long time since he was anything but respectful to me. I know you probably don’t believe me… but he’s changed. I cannot speak for him, and I know he did some horrible things – like what happened to your brother. But he told me the exact circumstances in which he killed the Mad King and I do think we are all indebted – I mean perhaps not indebted but at the very least thankful – to him.”

“I don’t know…” Sansa was still bothered. “My father used to say that killing by thrusting a sword in a man’s back – especially a King whom he was sworn to protect…”

“The Mad King was going to burn King’s Landing to the ground. Jaime told me the only thing he was saying was ‘Burn them all! Burn them all’.”

“What?” The question was barely a whisper.

“He did not have any choice. It was either the king or every inhabitant of King’s Landing, including the Lannister’s army and Ser Jaime’s father. I have to admit, in his place, I hope I would have done the same as he did.”

Well, it did cast a new light on the official story. Sansa had never doubted her father’s word, but she trusted Brienne’s equally. And her father arrived in the Throne Room when King Aerys was already dead at Jaime Lannister’s feet – perhaps he misinterpreted something?

“Alright. I won’t say I am in Jaime Lannister’s debt, but I trust you. If he is a good man to you, then I sincerely hope you’ll see him again.”

“I sure hope so as well, Sansa.” She paused for a long time, while Sansa pondered on the newly discovered acts of Ser Jaime. “Thank you,” she said after a time, “for your understanding. It… means a lot.”

They smiled at each other and the conversation kept flowing, changing from one topic to another until late in the night.

 

Sansa’s nightmares started again that night, after a brief but wonderful interlude of quiet nights – when she had been too preoccupied to sleep and then too exhausted to dream. Her head had barely touch the pillow that she was woken up by her own screams, mind relenting of images of Winterfell and the Red Keep burning, dragons and Joffrey’s distorted face who shouted “Bring me his head! Burn them all!” over and over.

By chance, her moment of shame went unnoticed. It was still night outside, and Sansa wanted nothing more than go to Jon’s chamber – just like she had done every time she couldn’t sleep since they reunited – and bask in his presence. But it was impossible. If she went to him as she was right now, shaken and needy, who knew what she would end up saying or – worse – doing?

She could picture it, clear as a bell: he’d hesitate for a moment to let her enter, always uneasy about what someone would say should they happen on them. But she would give him a small smile and it would be enough to convince him. Like always, he’d ensure she’d remain warm and comfortable, by giving her the better chair and the closest one to the fire. He’d listen to her if she wanted to talk about it or start a new conversation if she didn’t.

For the worst nights, when the terror was still visible in the depth of her eyes, he’d make her laugh until she’d forgotten everything but the present moment.

And before she’d have to leave his room, he always cradled her face into his hand and give her the most tender kiss on her forehead.

From this, it was so easy to let her mind wander and imagine he’d lay kisses on her cheeks, her hands – except instead of a grateful gesture, it would be a loving one – and lastly on her lips. It would be sweet, just like she imagined it in King’s Landing with Ser Loras.

There would not be any bites that hurt, or any grabbing that made her stomach churn in disgust. It would be gentle and painless because it would be with him.  
Maybe his hands would rest on her waist, keeping her close to him because he’d want her close; and she would let him, because she wants him close as well.

A warmth appeared in her belly, startling her a bit. But the feeling wasn’t unpleasant, so she let it grow.

They’d kiss and kiss and kiss…

And… _When a man’s blood is up, there’s a moment when the need override all sense; and even the most gentle man turns into a beast._

She had trouble imagining Jon lose control – he who was always so composed, who she had to draw his thoughts out of him to get him to talk to her or explain why he was crying – but she needed to remind herself that for all his qualities, Jon was still a man. It was useless to put wool over her eyes about what happens behind the closed doors of a bedchamber.

Could she hold him responsible for something that was obviously out of his control?  
Of course, she could not! She wouldn’t!

She _knew_ he would never hurt her, would protect her at all cost. He wouldn’t rejoice in it or drag it out like Joffrey or Ramsay or Petyr. No, it would be unpleasant but quick, like it would have been with the men in the Bread’s Riot or Tyrion or Sandor.  
But it would be different from all those men for the sheer fact that she loved him, with her whole self. And if a little discomfort was needed every now and then for his pleasure, well, she would endure it.

Still, it was strange to dwell on the hurt and humiliation of the act in a day-dream, so she ceased her train of thoughts. Instead, she imagined what would happen after.

They would lay in his bed for a while, lost in admiring one another. It would be her turn to kiss him, and oh! How she would!  
As much as he’ll want me to, she promised herself, blushing furiously at her thoughts.  
Perhaps he’ll even apologize for what he would have just done to her. She chuckled, completely giddy at the thought: that sounded like something he’d do, indeed! She would reassure him in a flash, of course, but she’d be over the moon that he’d care so much for her.

A longing sigh escaped her, then, at the beautiful picture her mind supplied. She would fall asleep in his arms, to the sound of his breathing and the sweet nothings he would murmur just for her ears.

She wanted it, she wanted all of that.  
_But it’s just a pretty picture. Jon is in love with Daenerys._

==--==

She hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after her little fantasy that left her ashamed when it would pop up in her mind at the most importune moments. Gods, and she promised Jon she’d dine with him this evening! She had no idea how she was going to react at spending time with him without anyone else.

She’d nearly wanted to fake sickness just so she could hide in her bed all day long. But there were many things to be done, a meeting to attend and the days before the war were numbered and she did want to spend most of it with him.

Still, her level of concentration wasn’t a satisfying one. She managed to get work done, between daydreams of Jon, self-scolding at those, worry at Arya’s stubbornness and pondering at Brienne’s confession.

She asked her sister to be more civil towards the dragon queen as soon as she found her in the Great Hall and did not relent until she had promised her between her teeth that she would. Jon was already seated, vehemently debating with Ser Davos over something but, as they saw her came closer, their conversation ran out. It aggravated her, but she decided to forget it when she witnessed the preoccupied glance Jon threw around the room.

The dragon queen took her place at Jon’s right, and the meeting began. Thanks to the passing of the night, the Lords were calmer – well, they weren’t hurling insults at the queen, at least. Everything was as good as it could be when a guard barged in the hall, attracting everyone’s attention on him.

The poor lad couldn’t be older than five-and-ten and stuttered his message. She could feel Arya’s look of ‘You **really** need better guards’ directed her way “Lady Stark, Lord Snow. There’s a-a man who wants to speak with you. He’s wearing black, but he claims to be Jaime Lannister.”

The whole room let out a collective gasp at the new, and the queen was the first one to put herself back together. “He’s the Lord Commander of the Lannister army. Let him in,” she commanded, once more launching a series of protests.

“He’s a Lannister! No Lannister should ever be welcome in the North!”

“We don’t know if he’s really who he claims he is!”

But when the door opened, Sansa heard Brienne’s breath itch in the great silence that fell on the room, and she knew without a doubt that Jaime Lannister was standing before her.

He had changed, since the last time she saw him. She hadn’t been able to take a good look at him, then, for he was at the other side of the wedding party – so far from the main table, so far from his son. Still, he looked regal in his golden armor and with his mannered stance. The man who stood in the Great Hall, however, kept his features hard and unyielding and wore a long black cloak and black gloves, even hiding his golden hand.

Murmurs of “Kingslayer” and “Lannister” and “sister fucker” were spat all around the room. Only Brienne looked at him with a modicum of affection – which was nothing compared to what she let Sansa see the previous evening.  
He saved us all, she reminded herself. He saved us and got nothing but scorn in return. Yet he’s here, in the North, with no one to protect him should someone decide to cut his throat and claim vengeance for the North.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon stood up and started speaking before Daenerys could, “thank you for coming here. Your army will-”

“There is no Lannister army, Lord Snow. Only me. You asked for help, I came to help you as best as I can.”

“Cersei Lannister promised me she’ll send her armies to fight with me against the undead.” The dragon queen seethed, the first hints of yesterday’s fury showing back in her voice.

“If you’ll have me, of course. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ve done quite a bit of traveling for nothing.”

“And why should I trust you, Kingslayer?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing. I saw what’s out there. I heard you when you said it’ll come for all of us. I’m not as good a fighter as I used to be,” he said showing his right hand, “but I can still fight. And I will.” He paused, judging the reactions in the room. Sansa couldn’t know what he saw in her face, for she wasn’t certain of what she was feeling herself. However, she noticed how he seemed to draw strength from Brienne’s presence. “I know our families aren’t close. I know I did unspeakable things to your family. I can’t say-”

“Why?” Sansa blurted out. “Why did you push my brother out of a window?”

The regretful look Ser Jaime send her made her heart break a little, even if she was trying to harden it. “He saw us. Cersei and me. She was scared he’d tell everyone so I…” His voice was hoarse, and he flinched when another whisper of “sister-fucker” reached his ear.

“Did you love her?” Sansa asked, earning herself a few gasps of her own, even one from the man sitting right next to her. “Cersei?”

Ser Jaime’s brows furrowed, as if he couldn’t understand the point of her question. “I did, Lady Stark.” His answer was short, clipped. His posture had turned defensive, as if he was bracing himself against her scorn. “I won’t be ashamed of my feelings,” he said to the few scoffs that could be heard, his head defiantly held high.

Next to her, Jon was so tense she could practically feel it. Still, she forced her voice to remain soft when she asked again, “And did she love you?”

“She did. It was a time when I would have done anything to keep her safe, to ensure she was happy. Anything. That’s what love does to you.”

His declaration had touched her, and she felt her eyes prickling with unshed tears. She saw his reserved hope spread across his features the longer she held his gaze with no trace of judgement in hers.  
How could she hold him responsible for something that was obviously out of his control?

“Then be welcome in Winterfell, Ser Jaime. For what it is worth, I forgive you for what you’ve done to my family, and to the North, as Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

It wasn’t much, she knew it, but he looked at her with such gratitude it made her fidget in her chair. It was as if he couldn’t believe she was real, in front of his eyes, saying the words she said.

His knee touched the floor in a loud bang and before she could acknowledge anything, he had laid his sword before him, still looking at her in wonder, and was speaking in an assured voice.  
“Lady Sansa Stark, I offer you my services. I will shield your back and keep your counsel. I will give my life for yours if need be. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Sansa stared at him from her seat in shock. A quick glance at Brienne, though, fully made up her mind. She stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! (And also for all the kudos / comments / bookmarks)
> 
> Now I had to split that chapter – which was supposed to be the second part of chapter 4 – in two. So what was supposed to be the last part of chapter 4 is going to be the first half of chapter 6.  
> Let it not be said that I’m lacking inspiration! X)
> 
> (It’s all Sansa’s fault by the way – her nightmare coming back was supposed to take two sentences at most, her little BAMF moment the last chapter wasn’t supposed to happen at all and… yeah – all her fault)


	6. Wind blows a low flame out but kindles a large fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I LOVE this chapter’s title – I know no one really pay attention to them but I have to say it!)  
> (If some of you do pay attention to them, keep on. They are from diverse songs – I’ll share the list on the last note of the last chapter. Except for the ones who are in obvious relation with the show or the characters – like, there’s no song (that I know of) with ‘both a Targaryen and a Stark’ in their lyrics)
> 
> The long-awaited chapter!  
> This conversation was supposed to be ¼ of the 6th chapter. But they sat down and started to talk and…  
> This is the result :) Enjoy!

Jon was displeased at her actions, that much was obvious. She nearly had to jog to keep up with his long strides. Thus, she made a point to smile at every person they passed by, so as to not alarm anyone or spread rumors about a possible dissension between them.

At last they arrived in her solar - she had deemed safer to ask the maid to serve dinner in her solar instead of her chamber, not knowing if she was strong enough to hold back. From whatever her heart would wish her to do.  
The silence stretched between them, which was an unusual phenomenon. Usually, an easy chatter filled every little space between important conversations but the acknowledgement of her more than platonic feelings made her self-conscious, of them as well as what he's probably thinking of her silence.  
I don't want him to start questioning my silence. Jon could be oblivious at times – at last, she recalled her siblings whining about that – but he was observant when he put his mind to it. Swiftly, she babbled over the weather to distract him.

It was a poor distraction.

“Sansa,” he sighed, brows furrowing and barely meeting her eyes. He looked exhausted. She straightened her back, preparing for the onslaught of accusation: how could you do something like that without telling me first? It’s Jaime Lannister. Now he’s your sworn shield. You’ve invited our enemy into our home. We don’t know where his loyalties lay.  
Instead, a few beats passed and none of that came up.

“What is it?” She asked, surprised when it made him startle slightly and successively drink and take a spoonful of stew. She watched him chewing, deep in thoughts. He took a great inspiration, met her eyes, before shaking his head and take another swig of ale.

Oh Gods, she thought, feeling all the blood leave her face all of a sudden, leaving her dizzy. This is it. He’s nervous because he’ll announce his betrothal to the dragon queen, and he dreads my reaction. Alright, put yourself together girl. This is not the moment to break down. Hold on a little longer, and then you will be able to let it all out. Alone. Tell him what he wants to hear, and then you’ll cry your heart out. Her hand came to hold the corner of the table, steadying herself.

She forced herself to smile, the string of lies coming easily in her mind, ready to be spoken aloud. The secret was to not dwell too much on her feelings, nor on her dizziness, and the practiced pretty words would come effortlessly. “It is wonderful, Jon,” That sounded strained even to her ears, she’d have to do better. I’m not used to lie to him, though.   
She didn’t even feel bad at making excuses.  
She settled her eyes on her plate and was relieved when her next words flowed more easily. I can always say it’s the emotion, if he finds me too weird. “I’m happy. Really, I’m delighted for you both. She’ll make a-a lovely wife, I’m sure, and your children will be- they’ll be-” she said in a strangled voice, her mind ordering her over and over to hold on. “Wonderful. I’m sorry,” she added, wiping her tears. “It’s ha-happy crying. I’m so glad you found someone. You deserve to be happy, Jon.” And somehow, that last bit was still said in complete honesty.

“What are you saying? Who do I have to marry?”

“You… You’re going to tell me you’ll be marrying the dragon queen when the war is over?” she explained, first eyeing him suspiciously, then allowing a flicker of hope to breach her resentment when he looked affronted at the mere idea. But then why would he…

“I’m not! Is that- is that what you’ve been thinking?” he spat out to her, looking genuinely baffled at that.

“What else should I think? You’re always with her, you’re even teaching her how to fight. She’s always looking at you and Tyrion told me about…”

“Oh, Tyrion told you!” he parroted, a harsh gleam in his eyes. “Of course, everything he says about everything must be the truth. I’m spending all my time with Daenerys, I had to bend the knee and bed her twice, so it must mean I’m very in love with her indeed. What should I think about you then? You spend hours with Tyrion, the two of you were married. When you said that he was always kind to you, I only thought…” He paused, exhaled loudly. “I was foolish even then, wasn’t I?”

“What does that have to do with anything? We were talking about you and Daenerys, not Tyrion and me!”

“You’re right,” he sighed, looking entirely defeated. “It’s not my business what the two of you are doing when I’m not here.”

“We’re not doing anything Jon,” she tentatively corrected. “Only talking about food, dragons and the war. We haven’t seen the other for years and yes, he was kind to me in King’s Landing.”

“I don’t want to hear that, Sansa. Please.”

She ignored him, for he had obviously a great misconception about the meaning of kindness. “Compared to the others, he was the only one who treated me like a human being. When he was Joffrey’s Hand, he was the only one who stood up to him. Everyone else was too afraid of the king to raise a finger when confronted with his whims. That’s what I mean when I say he’s kind.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have implied that.”

“But you thought it was the reason we were spending time together?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking...”

“Why are you with the queen, then, if you don’t plan on marrying her?” She asked at last.

“That’s what we needed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I mean, I thought you’d see right through everything. I never imagined you’d fall for it too, I never thought so many people would be so ready to think I made the same mistakes than Robb without batting an eye. It’s exactly what you warned me about, isn’t it? You really think I wouldn’t listen to your advice? I did that once, with Bolton. It was a huge mistake, one I am not making again.” He brought his chair closer to her and lowered his voice. “I never bent the knee, she believes I did. I did not help her win the Iron Throne, I ensured us the biggest army the North has ever seen. I don’t love Daenerys, she has dragons.  
This I swear to you, Sansa.” He took her hand in his own, his thumb softly stroking her knuckles. This grounded her back, a reminder it was truly happening. “I promised I’d do anything to protect you, and protect the North, and that’s precisely what I did.”

Her blood was singing with relief. And admiration. To her shame, this idea never crossed her mind. This is another way in which he surprised her, she decided. That and the fact that he had been listening to her, truly listening, despite her false certainties. There was only one question remaining, one that would pull the balance toward one side or another. “Why did you lay with her, then, if you don’t love her?”

“She gave us everything. I had to give her something in return.”

That wasn’t the answer she was hoping for. In fact, it did not make any sense. “You gave her the North,” she pointed out.

His face turned from serious to sad. “I don’t think there will be much North left when the war is over. Besides, she hadn’t truly grasped the seriousness of the situation even after I gave her the North. In fact, I’m not totally certain she grasps it even now. It all sounds like a game to her. Like it’s going to be easy when-.” He cut off his sentence.

“What were you going to say?”

“I don’t want you to worry about it.”

She sighed, her exasperation at his over protectiveness threatening to crash down. It would only ruin the moment, she knew it. “I’ll worry even more if I don’t know what it is. I just spent a fortnight worrying about the fact that you were going to marry Daenerys.”

His eyes darted to their joined hands and he watched as his thumb ceased his stroking motions and their fingers entwined. “It’s war.” He cleared his throat at the roughness of his voice. “Thousands will die. No one knows who’ll come back and who… won’t.”

“You’ll come back.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“You’re the best swordsman in all Westeros. You’re going to defeat the Night King, win this war, and come back home. You’ve already fought them once at Hardhome, and you lived to tell it.”

“How do you know about them being at Hardhome?”

“A wildling woman told me about it. Her name’s Srella. She was _very_ impressed by your bravery,” she added in a teasing whim, for it would be strange if she did not mention that the woman had, indeed, been in awe of him. And well, his first love had been a wildling woman, too. 

But her teasing went ignored. “Well then, if you know they were at Hardhome, you also know that we lost.”

“We have a bigger army now, and dragons.”

“So do they.”

“We have two of them. And they say the Dothrakis never lost any battle against another opponent. Everyone in Westeros is scared of them, there has to be a reason.”

“The Dothrakis aren’t used of fighting in the North, with snow and furs. There’s already a vast number of them who fell sick in the four days since we arrived at Winterfell. Sam said it’s the wind or something. It looks mild for some, but others are burning with fever. They are a great advantage yes, but only if they’re still alive when we march.”

“Why don’t you march now, if that’s the case?”

“You’re in a hurry to be rid of me now?” he said, a teasing grin on his lips.

“You know that’s not true,” she scolded him gently, unable to keep on teasing on such a topic.

“I know… We want to wait the longest we can before we’ll be meeting them. To make such a long ride in this weather is a folly. We’d all freeze to death on the first night. And we don’t have enough food for that neither. Here it’s rationed, and everyone is respecting when and how much they’re allowed to have. But on the road, some people would raid the few foods we have while others wouldn’t have anything.   
Last but not least, I’m hoping some more time would be good for everyone. They’re only starting to spend time together – the Night’s Watch, the wildlings, the Northerners, even the Unsullied are starting to mingle. We all have the same enemy, and people are uniting regardless of past disagreements and differences. I might die, we might all do, but at last I’m glad I got to see something like that happen.”

“You’re right. One common enemy, perhaps that was the thing Westeros needed to find its unity once again. Or to create it.” She lost herself in wishful thinking of a possible reunification of Westeros for a moment. “What should I do? What do you want me to do in Winterfell? I thought of sending portions of food and keep the smithy turning to send weapons with the food.” 

“You won’t be staying at Winterfell.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ve got a plan.”

“Jon, my place is at Winterfell. I’ve conceded to you that I won’t fight in the battlefield with everyone else, but I’m staying here. Where else would I be?” 

“Torrhen’s Square.” It had been a rhetorical question, obviously. But it seemed he had spent some time thinking about it, for he had an already prepared answer to that. “It’s a bit more south than Winterfell but close enough that you’d only take a day riding by the Wolfswood in that weather to reach it. Its keep is one of the strongest in the North and it’s situated near a lake which river flows to Blazewater Bay.   
If we lose, Daenerys will fly south. She promised me she’ll set the Wolfswood on fire, so you’ll have time to get into a boat. Wights can’t swim, so as long as you stay surrounded by water, they’ll never be able to get to you.”

“You want me to flee? I won’t! Only cowards run away!”

“It’s not a matter of being a coward or not, Sansa. It’s a matter of being sure you stay alive.”

“While thousands will die.”

“It’s war.”

“Indeed, it is. You are going to fight, Arya is going to fight, Bran is going to help by trying to warp in the dragon wight, I cannot be the only one who run and hide.”

“Bran will be with you. I’ll talk to Arya tomorrow and…”

The rest died on its own. Arya wasn’t going to listen to him, even less obey, they both knew that. Sansa forced herself to swallow her annoyance. “She’ll come around. I’ll talk to her, make her see reason. You’re her brother, you were so close as children. She’ll remember that, and she’ll come back to you. She just needs some time getting used to it.”

“I don’t have time,” he croaked, his hand squeezing hers a bit tighter. “I’m not the same person as I was when I last saw her. That boy died a long time ago. Perhaps it’s as simple as that. I changed too much.”

“She changed, too.”

“She’s still Arya. She’s still a Stark.”

“So are you.”

“I am a Targaryen. I’m not talking about this,” he elaborated when he saw her ready to protest. “I mean that, no matter what I do now, I’ll bear that name. I used to… I only ever wanted to be Jon Stark. And now I can’t even be that.”

“It’s only a name, though.” She reflected upon that, bothered it wasn’t enough to ease his tormented thoughts. “The Stark blood is strong in you, more so than in any of us.” As it didn’t seem to convince either, she tried a different approach, “The Tully blood is stronger in me than the Stark blood. Do you think I’m not a Stark, regardless?”

“You’re more a Stark than you think. You’re every bit the northern woman, believe me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, letting her hair fall in front of her shoulders to mask her blush. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her though.

“You’re fierce and stubborn – which is good. Even if it annoys me to no end sometimes. Even if it means that, more often than not, I happen to wish you’d let me protect you as often as I’d like to without protests over it.”

“I know how to protect myself,” she answered, repeating again the words she had been telling him since that first time.

“I know that. I do,” he added at her unconvinced expression. “Wanting to protect you doesn’t mean I think you can’t do it yourself, or that you are a coward or whatever else you might think. I never thought that, I-”

“You thought it when we were children then,” she granted, waving her hand – the one who wasn’t enclosed in Jon’s grip – dismissively. “I don’t need you to tell me lies, Jon.”

“I _never_ thought that, Sansa. Then or now. I used to think you were the embodiment of everything a lady should be. Now, I know that’s who you are. But I also know you are way more than that. You’re still just as kind and gentle and-and radiant as you were, and you’re resilient and righteous and smart as well and just- there’s so much more and I’m not really good with words but. Yeah. I don’t think you’re a coward – at all.”

She did not expect that flood of compliments; it gave her assurance to ask what was on her mind. Since he didn’t think she was a coward “Why don’t you want me to learn how to fight?”

“I wish you’d never had to do it. You never expressed an interest in that kind of fighting, ever. I’ll admit it if it pleases you: I’m selfish and I want you to be safe. Besides, even if you started learning now, you wouldn’t be ready when the time comes anyway.”

She nodded slowly. “You have a point. Alright, I promise to not broach the subject again if you agree to answer a couple of things.”

“Anything!”

That made her smile. “What were you and Ser Davos talking about, before the meeting? And what were you going to say earlier? Before you had to correct my assumptions about you and the dragon queen.”

She could see he briefly regretted agreeing so quickly to ‘anything’ before he hid his reaction by taking another gulp of ale. Their dishes were laying untouched and cold in their plates, reduced to the convenient excuse they were to their conversation.  
I’ve never seen him drink like this, she idly noticed, it’s as if he’s seeking courage.

After a few more aborted starts, she finally obtained an answer.

“It wasn’t much a talk than a reprimand. He-he doesn’t approve of my late actions, he thinks I should concentrate on Daenerys and the Great War rather than… distractions,” he confessed to their joined hands.

She nearly scoffed at that. Jon, distracted? The dragon queen and the war and their survival has been all he talked about when in public. The only times she saw him truly relaxed – and she blamed herself for not noticing it earlier, it would’ve prevented her worrying about him and the queen and love – was when he was with her, and Bran, and Arya, and Sam.  
His features were always serious, and his shoulders withstood the burden of ruling and leading without wavering, ever. She was upset Ser Davos would admonish him for what – being distracted? What does that even mean?

“It’s not that simple. He’s right. I’ve been… careless since Bran told me – thankfully, be that as it may, no one put two and two together, yet. But Davos noticed,” he blushed at that, taking her aback, still not meeting her eyes, “how long since others do, too?”

She figured that if he had wanted to be more precise, he would have done it. It looked deeply personal and he did not seem ready to share it with her. Thus, she let it go, did not press for further information and made no remark on his blushing.  
If it’s noticeable to whoever’s looking, I may be able to figure it out by myself, she caught herself thinking.

“What about the other question?” She prompted again, when he did not make a move to keep talking. His eyes darted to her thrice, in quick succession, and his pinkish tone of his cheeks didn’t abate but he fidgeted.

“The official reason was that I wish to apologize,” he blurted out.

“For what?”

“Anything you feel deserve an apology.” He paused, then started speaking once more – though his voice was more controlled. “For not finding a way to write to you without having Varys reading the scroll before its depart. For letting some of my anger against everything lash on you that first night – I was literally upset at everyone but you, and it’s not fair you were the one to see me in such a state. For not telling you sooner about Daenerys. For acting so daunt and embarrassing you because I wasn’t thinking, when it was never my-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yesterday. I shouldn’t have forced you to reveal who you were sharing your meal with. It’s none of my business and I’m sorry I acted so… so lowly, my lady?”

What a strange thing to apologize about!

“It wasn’t a state secret, my dinner with Brienne,” she said lightheartedly, because it was the only way she had found could cut through the intense way the atmosphere suddenly shifted to. “Don’t apologize for that.”   
She paused until he nodded his conceding. “What is the non-official reason, then?” she asked, alluding to his previous statement.

He laughed lightly, and his expression softened incredibly. There, he looked at her _that_ way once again. “I missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t very sure of how this chapter was going to come out as I was writing it (I’m a bit nervous with dialogue and absolutely want conversations to flow naturally – so imagine a dialogue chapter) but when I re-read it as a whole, I thought it was better than I previously expected.
> 
> I’m impatient to know your thoughts on it, though!


	7. Forget that impression that you’re so much stronger than the Northern people

Jon had left soon after those last words, claiming it was getting late to wander in the corridors. She had then spent the whole night tossing and turning in her bed, unable to find sleep. She had been restless with exhilaration and excitement as she replayed their conversation in her mind over and over.  
She had been in the middle of mending one of Arya’s shirt when Ser Jaime had knocked at the door of her solar. He beckoned her to walk with him to the camp.

“There is something I think you’ll like to see, Lady Stark,” he explained, offering his arm as she followed him down the stairs. “It was supposed to be a proof of my well-meaning intentions, for I had assumed I would have needed it, what with me barging into a meeting without the Lannister’s army. I never presumed that you’d… vouch for me and welcome me as a guest in your household, my lady.”

“You have lady Brienne to be grateful for, in that case, ser.” She was pleased to notice how his eyes adverted at the mention of Brienne. “She is the one who assured me you weren’t what we all thought you were.”

“It’s just going to lengthen the list of things I am grateful of that involve her.”

Their conversation died out as they strode across the courtyard and passed the gates. She hardly wandered around the camp; usually she preferred staying in the safety of Winterfell walls. Northern soldiers and wildlings and a few Unsullied were running, training or just interacting with one another. She spared a few moments to bask in the pride and joy of seeing what Jon had described the previous evening: one single army, made of soldiers who would have fought on opposite sides were things different, and instead were talking, helping and respecting one another.

Everyone who looked in their direction recognized her and stopped to exchange a few words. She did not dismiss the opportunity to mingle with the soldiers and, particularly, the new fighters. To her relief, none of them begrudged the fact that she wouldn’t march with them to battle. They all looked glad to see her and were grateful for her organization and help.  
Even the wildings, who looked at her warily at first, when she was still surrounded by Northerners, warmed up when Tormund hailed her from the other side of the narrow path.

She begrudged herself for not leaving her safe heaven sooner. All those persons were fighting for the North safety, she should be spending more time with them, as the Lady of Winterfell and as a Northerner. She promised herself she’d find a way and some free time to devote to them.  
 _I want them to love me._

They were less halted the more they advanced. She shifted closer to ser Jaime as they entered the Dothraki part of the camp, and the closeness allowed her to catch the way his eyes focused over every little detail and he seemed more alert than ever.

Her instincts screamed at her to hold her head high and stand her ground, refusing to be intimidated by their mocking grins and wandering gazes. Instead, she stepped up the pace and held her breath until they arrived in the last part of the camp, the one which hosted the Unsullied. She did not really know what to think of them, for they were mostly staying together and speaking a dialect unknown to her. She knew they were very loyal to the dragon queen, though, so for now they were on the same side.

“They are very skilled soldiers,” Ser Jaime stated. “Very impressive, too. Especially when they are mobilized outside of a city, ready to siege it if need be.”

“They say the dragon queen bought them from slave masters in Essos and freed them. They say an army of Unsullied is the most loyal army one can hope for.”

“Indeed. Yet loyalty can be found on both side of a battle. And then what wins the war?”

“Skilled soldiers?” she guessed, repeating what he just said.

He smiled sadly and lowered his voice. “Strategy. And their queen has none. The Dothraki kill ruthlessly. The dragons breathe fire on everything and everyone. My brother is a political mastermind, not a military planner.”

“Lord Tyrion won the battle of the Blackwater,” she argued.

“Actually, he did not. He succeeded in keeping Stannis Baratheon’s army from crossing the gates until my father and the Tyrells arrived. And he decimated Stannis’ army with wildfire. In that aspect, I guess that him and his new queen have found a sharing of interest.”

“I’m sure Lord Tyrion never intended to-”

“Yet that’s exactly what he did. I am speaking plainly here, Lady Sansa, I do not think you’re a foolish girl. Is that the kind of queen you wish for the Seven Kingdoms?”

She tensed, unwilling to make assumptions that would result in grave consequences. Yet, he did kill a king who wanted to burn everyone alive, without seeking glory for himself, only in the goal of protecting lives.  
He had sworn in front of all the Lords that he’d be loyal to her and demonstrated his trust by speaking words that could be so easily reported as treasonous if she wanted to. Moreover, Brienne trusted him. With what concerned Daenerys Targaryen, he was on her side.

“We all are focused on winning the Great War, for now. A dragon has already been lost to the enemy, and Lord Samwell is searching for a way to kill it.”

His relieved sigh could be heard from where she was standing. “Cersei’s Hand had built a weapon. We tried during a battle against one dragon and it was hurt. It can’t be killed with one blow only, and it burnt the prototype before another arrow could be shot, but it forced the dragon on the ground.”

She opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted when his solemn face turned into a small smile, making his eyes crinkle. For a brief instant, she had before her a whole new man, closer to how she remembered Jaime Lannister acted.

“It can no longer be used as a guarantee of my honorable intentions, so consider this a thank you gift, my lady,” he declared with a flourish gesture.

Her gaze followed his arm and settled on the flying banner set on top of a tent. She gasped in wonderment as her eyes took stoke of the tell-tale blue and red background and the silver leaping trout of her lady mother’s house sigil. A dozen of red tents were installed on the frozen ground, just after the Unsullied part of the camp, and filled with men dressed as soldiers and knights of the Riverlands – a style she had never saw with her own eyes but had heard her mother describe so many times she recognized it at first sight.

She took a few steps further in the camp installation, Ser Jaime staying behind and allowing her a moment to compose herself.

“Hey, you!” she heard him call out. “Go fetch Lord Tully. Tell him his niece is here.”

That was the turning point. Every man around had recognized Jaime Lannister’s voice and hurried to him. Several gasps answered her own and she could hear murmurs of “Lady Catelyn’s daughter” and, surprisingly, “Snowdrop of Winterfell”. Some stared, others bowed.  
Finally, a tall man found his way through the gathered people. He wore a plain black armor but his red hair – though it was darker than hers was, or her mother’s has been – and the wonderment mirroring hers were unmistakable.

She had never met him, but her blood _knew_ he was family.

“Sansa?” His voice could barely be heard, even though everyone around them had stopped talking.

Her smile was a watery one as she nodded once in mutual identification. “Uncle Edmure.”

He bowed deeply to her. The silence that stretched between them was as awkward as it was needed. Ser Jaime was the one who broke it, strutting to them, “I thought it was high time we show these easterners what western people are truly made of!” Sansa did not suppress her giggle.

“I am deeply sorry we could not come to you earlier. I had been imprisoned by the Freys and, since their deaths, I have been busy taking back Riverrun and preparing for winter. Ser Jaime here send us a raven a week ago and we came as soon as possible. Nonetheless, it is no excuse for not coming to you when you asked for our aid. I, therefore, ask you forgiveness on behalf of house Tully and of my uncle, Brynden the Blackfish.”

“I forgive you, uncle.” She first intended to respond with something along the line as ‘there’s nothing to forgive’ but thought better: she **did** ask for their help against Ramsay and the Tully’s words are _Family, Duty, Honor_. Maybe she was too petulant, but the forgiveness and understanding were here. 

“We are glad to see you’ve came to our help for the war. You’ll have to arm your men with dragonglass weapons, but Jon will explain the details better than I could.” She would have liked basking in meeting her uncle for the first time and the chance of getting to know him but there was simply no time for now. He offered her a tight smile, understanding the urgency and the lack of small talk. “How many men came with you?”

“There is forty-two of us for now. The rest should arrive in less than a week.”

“The rest?”

“They are slowed down by the carts. Travelling with it in the snow is slower than simply riding with bags. All in all, when they arrive, we shall be two hundred men.”

She did not dare believe what he was telling her. “The carts?” she asked again, needing him to confirm what she started to guess.

“Ser Jaime asked that we bring with us all the supplies of food we can spare to Winterfell. There is a dozen of carts of wheat, half-dozens of oats and another of ryes. We have vegetables. We also brought some cheese and about two muttons, though I’m not sure they’ll survive the ride. I was told,” he added, tilting his head to Ser Jaime, “that you’ll be in need of all the food supplies you could get.”

That made her stop. The stock of food was indeed diminishing at fast rate since it was used for the whole army and the North has never been a very productive region in that aspect. However, “How did you know this?” she whirled to face her sworn shield, eyes wide.

She saw his face turn deadly serious and he started explaining. He explained how Tyrion has been playing her since the beginning. How there was never going to be arrivals of food in behalf of Daenerys Targaryen. How she attacked the Lannister army after she lost Highgarden, riding her dragon. How he saw her with his own eyes burning soldiers, burning dozens of carts containing food supplies.

Her vision was narrowed as she strode back to Winterfell. She was furious and vehement on holding Tyrion and his fire-mad queen to account. She could hear Ser Jaime and her uncle right behind her, guarding her back as she rushed through Unsullied, Dothrakis, Northerners – all of them forming a blur.  
She supposed Tyrion was in his solar, so she’ll check there first. Then there was the Targaryen’s solar and if he weren’t…

Sansa was abruptly stopped as she neared the gates. “Here she is!” bellowed Tormund, raising her arm above her head in what she was sure was a pretty ridiculous pose.

Her uncle was immediately beside her, extricating her arm from Tormund’s grip while crying out indignantly “Who are you to dare touching the Lady of Winterfell in such a familiar manner?”

The giant man frowned his brows and started to reply. However, Arya and Jon reached them at the same time, their faces wearing a matching worried look.

“Sansa!” They both exclaimed, between labored breathing. Jon’s eyes were on her, looking up and down, assessing for her condition, “Are you alright?” while Arya’s took stoke of her surroundings and ended fixed on Ser Jaime suspiciously “What were you doing with him?”

Sansa was thus the second person to get interrupted, though she had no idea who she was going to answer first, or what all this fuss was about. She was still concentrated on finding Tyrion and let him know her mind, and that delay only dwelled the fire of her anger.

“Oh Gods! Lady Sansa! You’re here! And unhurt!” Brienne said, running to her and ignoring Tormund’s guarantee that he was the one who found her.

Fear settled in Sansa’s stomach. “Is something wrong?” They all looked intently at her, as if she was going to disappear before their eyes. It looked more and more like a critical situation, whatever it was. She awaited anxiously.

“You were gone!” Her sister was the first one to speak, reproach clear in her tone but upholding her glare on ser Jaime.

“You weren’t in the Great Hall, nor in your solar, nor in your chambers, while Brienne never saw you leave them, nor in the courtyard.” Jon explained in a gruff voice, standing right next to her and turning his back on ser Jaime.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“We searched everywhere and the only person with information saw you leaving for the camp with Jaime Lannister an hour ago.”

“You were nowhere to be found!” Arya stabbed a finger in her arm. “A horde of Dothrakis and an army of Unsullied camp outside the gates, with a mad queen at their command. What do you think we thought happened?”

“I was with ser Jaime,” Sansa retorted.

“Oh, that’s your excuse? ‘I was with the Kingslayer’. You trust _him_ to protect _you_ but you wouldn’t let _me_ watch your back?”

“You’re my sister, Arya, not my sworn-shield. I don’t need a squad of guards.”

“No, you said you only needed Brienne; but now you’ve got a Lannister too. Why not me?”

She sighed, “We’ll talk about it later,” and made a move to leave.

“Where’re you going?” was the immediate inquiry.

“Do I have to answer to you, now?” She asked childishly.

“You wouldn’t have to if you agreed to let me…”

Sensing where this was going, Sansa held a hand, effectively shutting her sister’s list of reasons. “I have to talk with lord Tyrion,” she explained, feeling her fury come back at once.

“I’ll go find him, my lady,” was the hurried response of a young man, dressed in the northern fashion.

“Tell him to meet me in my solar. And to bring his queen with him. At once.”

“What is it?” Jon enquired, falling into her steps as she started to walk – in a much more measured way – back to her solar, followed by everyone.

She exchanged a quick glance with ser Jaime and, before Tyrion was brought in her solar, all were briefed on the situation.

Her solar felt crowded, especially thanks to the presence of Tormund and Brienne, and it helped her relax knowing that it would intimidate the dragon queen and her Hand more. They would cross the threshold and be met with seven persons standing side by side as a united front and answer for their acts. Most of them were here for support, they agreed beforehand to mainly let Jon and her do the talking and not intervene. Jon would speak with the queen as she was fond of him, and Sansa with Tyrion.

However, only one person got in; Tyrion’s steps immediately faltering before the picture of them. “Is there- You’ve asked for me, my lady?” he tentatively said.

“I asked for you and the queen.” Sansa lifted her chin up, looking down at him, making sure her voice was as cold as it could be. And that it remained that way.

“Indeed, indeed! Our queen will arrive shortly. She apologizes and asks for your comprehension.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “There is no time for your falsities. Where is the food?” She paused, waiting to see if he’ll confess on his own or if she’ll have to force it out of him. “You are allied with the Reach,” Another pause. “You took back Highgarden weeks ago – yet that was something you failed to inform me when we talked about the contribution you were going to bring to Winterfell.”

“There… there won’t be any food coming from the Reach. But we-”

“The North’s supply is feeding your army. You are our allies, lord Tyrion, not our guests. We had an agreement.”

“I promise you, Lady Stark, that we have found a solution for this matter. The queen wrote this morning to her regent in Meereen, in Essos, and asked him for supplies. We’ll- we’ll find a way to feed ourselves, meanwhile, without taking more of what you already gave us so generously.”

“Essos? Is this how you’ll be feeding the Realm, too? With food from Meereen?” She was baffled by the poor… ‘solution’. It wasn’t a viable one, she knew it, Jon knew it – she couldn’t believe Tyrion wouldn’t see it.  
She huffed at his resigned silence. At last he looked apologetic. “Since the queen is not here, but Jon assured us you left with her when you took back Highgarden, perhaps you could enlighten us as to why ‘there won’t be any food coming from the Reach’?”

“It sounds as if you are already aware of the reason, Lady Stark.”

“We are having a bit of trouble understanding the reasons behind this, though, even when ser Jaime assured us he saw Daenerys Targaryen riding a dragon and burning carts of food and soldiers alike. Humor us.”

“It was a battle…”

“A battle?!” Ser Jaime was seething. “A horde of savages and a fire-breathing dragon against foot soldiers with spears and wooden shields. It wasn’t a battle, it was a massacre!”

“Semantics…” she thought Tyrion muttered, but it was drowned by the forceful knock that nearly made her door rattle. The dragon queen entered, followed by two armed Dothrakis. Immediately, their side closed ranks.

“How kind of you to join us, Your Grace,” her sister hissed from just behind her. “Did you expect to be attacked coming here? The castle is safe, though.”

“Ogatto and Ziganno are my personal escort. I’m the Queen, and doesn’t the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms have a Queensguard?” She had to lift her chin to look at Sansa in the eyes, and the realization made her childishly beam inwardly. “This meeting can start, Lady Sansa.”

“We were wondering why you burnt the food from the Reach when winter is upon us,” she said, not beating around the bush anymore.

“I did not burn any food! Where does that come from?” she exclaimed, defensive.

Sansa stared at her incredulously, probably imitated by everyone else in the room, beside the two Dothrakis guards who remained stoic, and Tyrion’s face was too shadowed to be read properly.

“I saw you specifically burning the carts during the attack.”

The dragon queen’s eyes widened and her lips parted in an expression of horror. “There was food in those carts? I thought there were carrying gold and weapons! By the Mother, how could I have known?”

Is she saying the truth? Sansa couldn’t determine. On one side, she seemed truly baffled and dismayed by the news. But on the other, how could she not have think about it? Did she never second-guess her actions? It seemed evident to Sansa that, after taking Highgarden, the Lannisters’ army would take everything of value to King’s Landing. It was strange that she wouldn’t think of the food, especially with an army like hers.  
A quick glance at Jon confirmed he was experiencing the same reasoning.

“You have to believe me! I would never endanger my people like this, Lady Sansa, I swear it.”

“We believe you, my queen.”   
Sansa had started to answer when Jon spoke for the lot of them. Now that she knew it wasn’t lovey-dovey between them, she could appreciate his intervention at its fair value: him talking visibly soothed the queen and asserted their alliance – which they still needed in order to win the war, and it prevented her from having to do it.  
 ** _The North remembers_**.

As everybody started to leave in small groups after Daenerys left, promising she’ll make amends, and they assured her the incident would stay between them, Sansa’s hands shot to Jon’s and Arya’s arms, forcing them to stay behind with her.

“You two need to talk,” she asserted when the door closed after Brienne.

Though while Jon nodded, Arya wasn’t so easily convinced. “I don’t have anything to say to him,” she declared, even going as far as to cross her arms and making a show of turning her head away from him.

“No, but I do. C’mon Arya, just listen to me for five damn minutes.”

“To hear you gush about fucking your aunt? Certainly not! It’d only make me puke all over your boots.” Sansa noted her sister looked a little greener at the mention, while rolling her eyes at their language. Did they have to be so vulgar? “Maybe I should, now that I think about it. It’d get your mind straight, ‘cause you apparently missed the fucking point of why two Targaryens fucking is a bad thing!”

“I’ll leave the two of you to it,” Sansa suggested. “Please, listen to him. And wait until he’s finished,” she looked intently at her sister one last time before opening the door.

 

She had felt an irrepressible need to breathe fresh air and clear her head, so she had walked outside instead of back to the Great Hall where more work waited for her, no matter the food problem was soon going to be a memory.

She wandered around, enjoying the way snow slowly fell around her. It reminded her of the afternoon she had spent in the Eyrie, building a snow-castle of Winterfell and wishing with her entire being she could be back.  
Now she was back, but her family was a thousand miles away from what it had always be. Bran wasn’t Bran anymore – his own saying, and though she did not want to believe it, she was forced to recognize it looked more and more like a permanent truth – she loved Jon more than she ever expected she would, Jon was not her bastard half-brother but her cousin, and he and Arya’s relationship turned so cold so swiftly she feared it would never warm again. And their matching stubbornness did not help.

I longed for Winterfell, now I am in Winterfell. I longed to have my family with me, now it’s here again.   
And now, I long for us to be as close as we once were.

She slowly shook her head, making snowflakes fall the ground, merging with their counterparts and creating layers of compacted snow. She should be glad for what she had. She should stop being so greedy and stop always wishing for more.

Her feet had taken her where her mother’s small Sept once stood. She recalled the time she passed in it, sometimes alone, sometimes with her lady mother. She had longed to be somewhere else, then, too. It seemed she could never be satisfied with what she had.

If Mother was here, she would know what to do. She had never witnessed her lady mother fail or falter under hardships. Yet how many have witnessed her do precisely that?

“The snowdrop of Winterfell. Good morning to you, Lady Stark.”

The soft voice startled her, and she turned abruptly to its owner. Lord Varys stood before her, clad in furs and thick wool, yet still hiding his hands the way she remembered he always did in King’s Landing. She was surprised to see him and dreaded the fact that it was the first time she had since he arrived and hadn’t thought much about it until now.  
He worked for the Targaryen queen now. And she knew from her time in the South that he couldn’t fully be trusted.  
All in all, he was an enigma who worked for someone she disliked and who had been doing who-knows-what since he arrived here.

“This is the second time I hear that… wording today. What does that mean?” she asked, partly because she was interested by the answer, and partly because she knew that making people talk is better than talking yourself.

“I believe it is the name the common folk has taken on giving you. I heard the verses associated with it are quite often sung in Wintertown’s tavern and between the camp’s ranks. In taverns of the whole North, even, and beyond it. It is a beautiful song, I think. But then,” he added, walking to her and staying on her left, looking in the empty space of her mother’s Sept, “its subject does inspire only beautiful things.”

“There is a song about me?” she couldn’t help but be amazed at that. The girl she once was would be exalted. But then, why would people write songs about her? She lives a pretty uneventful life, and her past is more horrible than ‘beautiful’. “How do you know about this?” He wasn’t the one to hang around taverns or soldiers.

“Little birds fly everywhere, my lady. The North is full of them. Do not worry, they only chirp beautiful words about you. Impressive ones, also.” He smiled at that, obviously wanting her to be at ease. She softened her face but remained cautious. “Littlefinger was hardly a fool.” She restrained from fidgeting. Littlefinger’s death was still strange. Her guilt still present, even after everyone’s acclamation and support. “And the student finally surpassed the teacher. You fooled him, to everyone’s surprise. Even his own.”

“Thank you, lord Varys. I wouldn’t have succeeded had he not underestimated me, or my sister.” She made it sound like an off-hand comment, but the light in his eyes showed her he understood the threat underneath.

“Indeed. I found myself surprised at how much people underestimate the Starks. Even I fell for that Northern fool facade, to my great shame. You, your sister, the Warden of the North… even the former Lord of Winterfell. You all fooled us, in a spectacular way.”

“I don’t know what you are-”

“Please, Lady Stark. It is of no use.” She made a move – to do what, she had no idea. Find her sister. Tell Jon someone probably knew the truth. Ask the people pledged to her to send Varys far away from here and track whatever those ‘little birds’ are. “You have nothing to fear from me, I swear to you. I told you, I am very impressed with your family’s deeds.” Slowly, she went back to standing aside of him. Better to know to what extent he knew whatever it is he knew and act accordingly after. “Do you know how I came into serving Daenerys Targaryen?”

“No.”

“I do not exactly serve her, at least, not in the way you seem to think. I serve the realm, first and foremost. I am convinced the realm need someone stronger than Tommen and gentler than Stannis Baratheon. A monarch who could intimidate the High Lords and inspire the people. A ruler loved by millions, with a powerful army, and the right family name. I thought that person was Daenerys Targaryen, but it appears I was partially wrong.”

“Partially wrong?” She risked a glance toward him. His demeanor was as still and composed as ever.

“For my defense, I’ll only say that I did not hold all the cards. There was a crucial matter that had been so thoroughly hidden from me that I did not try to search more into it. You see, my lady, there are information one can have access to, if one only bothers to look closely. My source was, however, clear on that. They were three Targaryens heirs. Viserys, Daenerys and Aegon. Viserys was dead and Aegon was dead, too, killed by the Mountain with his mother and sister.” He turned to look at her, “At last, that is what I foolishly thought. Little did I know that there was another Aegon Targaryen.”

She in turn faced him, trying to make herself look as mighty as she could. “What do you want?”

“I want the best for the realm. As it turns out, the best isn’t one person, but two. One half of it was standing right under my nose for years; the other was hidden behind snow for decades.”

Her hands closed into fists. Jon did not want to marry Daenerys, he said so just a few hours ago. So, he won’t marry her, not on her watch. She longed for a close family, but she also longed for its members to be happy. She knew more than anyone what it was like, to marry someone you didn’t love, to marry someone who repulsed you.

“Your cousin is the King the realm needs. He has the best claim to the throne, and his time as King in the North is already marked by great achievements. So was his time as Lord Commander. And you, my lady, are the person the realm deserves. You did a wonderful job ruling the North, the people love you, and you are one of the greatest political mastermind of our days. The two of you, ruling… Well, we already saw what you did in the North.”

“What?” she shrieked. No, no, no, no! He couldn’t do that! He couldn’t put ideas like that in her mind, not when she _knew_ – yes, she knew, she had to remember – they could never happen. Not in her life. No. she couldn’t emphasize enough of how this was a terrible idea. She wouldn’t force Jon in a marriage he did not want. “I won’t. I’m not a pawn anymore, lord Varys.”

“You are right. You are every bit the Queen in the game.” He paused, examined her face before continuing, “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Being the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Not that. I wanted to marry a prince, because it sounded like a pretty song. I never wanted to sit on the Iron Throne and rule. And neither does Jon.”

“Life is not always how we imagined it to be. All we can do is try to make the best with what we have.”

“I don’t have that. Ruling Westeros is not something I am meant to do.”

“I beg to differ. But I suppose I should leave you to think on it. When you have an answer for me, please whisper it to one of Ser Laroy Batler’s daughters and consider me informed. Take all the time you need, for everything will start as soon as you say the words.”

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I don’t have any power, I’m just the Lady of Winterfell. She is Daenerys Targaryen, she has an immense army and two dragons. I can’t fight her.”

“You have allies, too. More than you might think. Remember, the people love you. For the rest, you can leave it to me. Please consider this. It could be beautiful. Song worthy, even, Your Grace.”

He bowed low and, on those last words, left her. She slowly walked back to her work, determined not to dwell over what had just happened.  
Besides, it wouldn’t matter at all if Jon wished to never reveal to the world that there is another Targaryen. And she couldn’t blame him, should he take that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **/!\** Daenerys’ solution to the food problem doesn’t come from me, nor her justification at burning the food. I have literally no idea how she’ll answer to that. I personally think she knew she was burning food, but I don’t think she’ll admit it. She has to know it would put her in a very _very_ bad light. I racked everywhere I could find (and there’s actually not that much material– not even in posts justifying Daenerys burning the food of the Reach) and this theory is what came more often. But people agreed to it, so even if I personally don’t see how it could be done, let’s go with the flow!
> 
> Jaime bringing Edmure with him to Winterfell and saving the day is my show-canon theory. And yes, I went with Edmure book’s hair color. He’s a Tully, he’s got the Tully look.
> 
> Snowdrop was the winner of a long debate (with myself) on which flower could be picked for designing Sansa in a song. It won because it can grow in winter, has the word ‘snow’ in it, announces spring’s arrival and symbolizes hope. Close second was aster (symbolizes love, daintiness and trust, can grow in winter) and third was azalea (take care, temperance, gratitude, passion, womanhood but can only grow in spring – so lacked the wintery/snow/cold/North reference).
> 
> Ogatto < ogat = to slaughter (because why not?) and Ziganno < ziganesolat = to defy/to oppose _(according to a Dothraki dictionary)_. I just wanted to give them names, since it’s been so long we had a named Dothraki on the show.


	8. Shameful memories we forget, looking in the mirror, thinking “I’m filthy, not repellent”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of Ramsay (if it bothers you, skip the first paragraph – that’s where the worst (aka detailed part) is)

She became aware of a hand on her right shoulder, which made her pause. She could feel Ramsay’s right hand pressing on her belly and his left one pinching her thigh. A third hand was disturbing. For all his dark promises, Ramsay had never brought another man to her bed; and Theon had only been present on the wedding. “This is not our wedding night, lady wife,” she heard him breathe right in her ear, laughter in his voice. She felt another sob threatening to spill out of her mouth, but she remained tight-lipped. This was only the beginning, and while he often succeeded in drawing out whimpers and pleas and cries from her before he was done with her for the night, she never gave in that soon. She saw his shadowed face move down until it was at level with her womb, both his hands resting now on her hips and squeezing. She could barely feel the third hand anymore, as Ramsay’s pulled her more and more in the memory. “So pretty you’ll be when you’ll carry my son. Do you realize? You’ll give me everything I ever wanted. It’ll be about time.” With that, he opened his mouth wide, the white of his teeth blazing in the sudden firelight and she screwed her eyes shut just as he bit her, his nails clawing at her skin. She heard a wail, not recognizing immediately it was her own.

Then, another hand shot from nowhere and closed around her naked shoulder. She tensed instantaneously. Someone is here, her mind supplied to her, someone is here but I don’t know where. She couldn’t see him – it was a him, she knew men’s hands, knew their size, knew their strength, knew their intent – and that was what frightened her the most. If she could take a glimpse of his face, she’ll know what to expect, she’ll be more prepared. If only she could…

“Open your eyes, Sansa.” That voice. It wasn’t Ramsay’s. It was safety, it was gentleness. “It’s me, it’s Jon. You’re in your own room, at Winterfell. Arya is sleeping in the same castle, Brienne in the room next to yours. You’re safe. Wake up. Wake up.”

She did. She opened her eyes, squinting at the warm light coming from the fireplace. Jon was here, half climbing on her bed and helping her sit upright. She was breathing shallowly, one hand cupped protectively over the spot where her dead husband’s teeth had marked her. She briefly noticed her nightgown had slipped over one shoulder, baring it, so preoccupied she was at swallowing her shame.  
Why was he the one who had to witness her in such a moment?

“What are you doing here?” she asked softly, trying to distract herself from the fading sensations of Ramsay’s hands on her skin.

At her words, he flinched away from her, standing up and pulling away his hand that was still curled around her covered shoulder. Nothing could have prepared her for the cold his reaction instilled in her. She couldn’t suppress a whimper at seeing him leave her.

_Lower your eyes, stop staring back at me. Lower them. On the ground._

“Don’t leave me alone, please. I-I can’t, I just. Please, stay. Please.”  
_Ramsay would have relished in hearing those words._ That was part of what he had ‘ever wanted’, he told her so on the second night. Made a nice thorough list about all the things he was going to do to her. Hearing her beg. Watching her break apart. And so on and on.

“Alright, sweet one. I’m staying, as long as you want me to.” He sat down on her bed, she threw herself at him.  
He caught her just as he always did. “I’m sorry for chiming in like that. I was passing by your door and I heard you cry. I wanted you to wake up. I tried poking the flames, I tried to talk. I didn’t want to startle you.”

His comforting presence was progressively soothing her and soon Ramsay was back on being an awful memory, more and more blurred in her mind each passing day.

She raised her head, which she had tucked under his chin, to properly look at him. His face was lighted by the fire glow, making his eyes seem almost black and his lips had a tentative upturn. His attention was turned to the locks of her hair that grazed his hand.  
He wasn’t looking at her, she thought, it would be so easy to come even closer and steal a kiss. A quick one, one she could sell as unintentional or comfort-seeker when he inevitably flips out. It wouldn’t be a complete lie, she estimated, but would it be fair?  
A kiss sounded like a wonderful idea, but a stolen one was a terrible one. She would be no better than _him_ if she took by force what did not belong to her.

And then how would Jon act around her?

“Do you wish to talk about it?” she heard him tentatively inquire.

“It was about Ramsay,” she simply answered. She did not want to talk more about him. She did not want Jon to start guessing neither, but it seemed she had no choice. 

"Tell me when you want me to leave"

She never wished for this moment to end. She felt safer in his arms than anywhere else, safe and at peace, _this could be your life if you say the word_  
Could she dare? 

"Can I ask you something?" He nodded "What do you plan on doing, concerning… you know… you’re the heir of the Seven Kingdoms. Will you tell the Lords?"

He leaned back to look at her in the eye, found a more comfortable position. "I must. I won’t lie to them, not when I know the truth. I have no claim to the North and it's not fair to you that I'd trespass your birthright "

"The North isn’t my birthright. I don’t mind you ruling, you know that. I just wish for- our family to be safe and, it appears that the only way we’ll ever be safe is if one of us is ruling. We don’t have to tell the world.”

“If I don’t do it, others will.”

Damn, does he know about Varys? Had he talked with him? Had Jon rejected his offer and so Varys turned to the woman, a more effortless person to convince? “Who?” He adverted his eyes, hesitating to answer.

“Arya swore she’ll tell everybody as soon as I’m not needed by the North. She wants you to be Queen when the war is done.”

“The North will need you way after the war is won.”

“And the North will never accept a Southern man as its ruler. And it’s good. Anyhow, ruling was never for me. I did not change. I can’t be Aegon Targaryen, neither do I want to be. I’m just… Jon. Is this alright?”

That’s it, then. Problem solved, not that there has ever been one in the first place. She was right, she shouldn’t have given more thought about lord Varys’ divagation. Besides, if Jon had intended to remain with her in the North, marriage should have come naturally to his mind. It seemed evident, since they were cousins, to strengthen his claim to the North, the place that has always been his home, by marrying her. Wasn’t she the key to the North?  
He would have married me for my claim but perhaps he could have grown to me over the years. I would have waited.

But it’s useless to dwell on what can never be. He just said so himself, he doesn’t want to rule, he still considers himself as her brother.  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she replied softly, her heart breaking at the grateful smile that broke his face.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he breathed, in awe. Then, he cleared his throat and added, “I should go back to my room. I agreed to have a talk with Tyrion tomorrow morning. I heard Daenerys might ask you to join her in Robb’s solar, uh, her solar. To break your fast with her. I think.” She let her smile fall at that, making him chuckle.

 

He had been right for she had received a summoning message at dawn. She hurried to finish putting her boots on, threw a quick glance at the vanity mirror, another outside as she stood up – the courtyard was slowly filling, and she spotted Jon and Tyrion’s walking towards the gates, apparently immersed in a discussion – and finally left her bedroom.  
Brienne was waiting for her – not that she required an escort since she had given Robb’s former chambers to the dragon queen, which were the closest large room near the Lord’s chambers. They chatted amiably on the short way to there, Sansa admitting her concern at not spending enough time near the soldiers, Brienne easing her out of “this misconception”. They agreed in front of the Dothraki-guarded-door to share a meal in their company.

The dragon queen and her friend – Missandei, her name is, she chided herself – were already seated when she entered.

“Lady Sansa!” The dragon queen cheered, a wide smile spread on her face. Sansa smoothed her own features, schooling herself for singing pretty words once more. “Come sit with us! I’m so excited to have you here, I don’t think we’ve had the chance to have a proper talk since I arrived here. You are always locked up in your tower.”

What a nice way to start things, she sarcastically thought. “Thank you for honoring me with your invitation, Your Grace.”

“I was so impatient to meet Jon’s little sister. Thankfully, my Hand reminded me beforehand Jon actually had two sisters. Please, serve yourself some meat. I don’t remember him mentioning you during his stay at Dragonstone – he is such a mysterious man. Don’t you agree?”

Now, that sounds too forced to be natural. I could bet my existence isn’t the only thing Tyrion had to run by you again, these past days. “Indeed, Your Grace. It’s the Northern blood in him.”

Daenerys chuckled. “It must be, the men here are so sullen. So different from the ones I met in Essos.” She paused, her eyes drifting and the light inside them dimming as she submerged herself in a memory. “But it’s of no matter now. I wanted to talk to you about him. What…” she hesitated a moment, worrying her bottom lip, “what was he like? As a boy?”

Avidity was written all over her face, and Sansa was thrown off for a moment that she’d let her see this so thoughtlessly. “I-I don’t understand, Your Grace.” She looked at Missandei for clarification, but she was observing her queen with a soft smile.

“He never speaks about his childhood, and you are his sister. I’d like it if you would describe him to me. How he was, his likes, his dislikes… Everything you can recall! I want to know.”

She wasn’t sure why she would think of asking her that sort of question, but she answered as best as she could. This is probably since Jon and Arya stay so distant, she now thinks they aren’t the closest Starks. However, this coupled with the knowledge that the dragon queen was being deceived by Jon barely moved her. On the contrary, she found herself relishing in the fact that she knew more about Jon than the woman who thought herself his lover, that she was still his favorite no matter which label he put on her.

The remainder of the breakfast was Sansa inquiring about Essos and its culture, Daenerys Targaryen recounting her deeds and Missandei…

Well, Sansa did not know what to make of the beautiful woman. She never got to answer any questions Sansa tried to address her, instead let her queen decide if she wished to reply or not. She did not utter a word and must have raised her eyes from her queen four times since the beginning of the conversation, every time to glance out of the window. It was very unsettling, and Sansa had the impression she wanted to be anywhere – or, more precisely, somewhere special – but here.  
Perhaps it is my presence that makes her feel uncomfortable.  
She had never pegged Missandei from the island of Naath for a shy person, but perhaps she was wrong.  
I’ve never seen her without her queen, after all. The loyalty between them is as strong as between sisters.

A Dothraki guard – Ogatto – approached in the middle of his queen’s tale of the birth of her dragons and grumbled something – in Dothraki, she supposed. She made a note to try and learn a few words at last, especially if they were going to winter in the North. He peered at her before tramping back to his station, a crooked smirk on his face. That and his looming posture, which compelled her to look up at him, was making her uncomfortable.

Just as she was about to make a hasty retreat to somewhere safe, Tyrion entered the room, immediately locking eyes with her. He looked shaken, but his presence was reassuring all the same. She was still angry with him for the food problem, even if she could understand his dilemma, but he was the person who was closest to her friend in this room, so she offered him a small smile.

“Your Grace, may I speak with Lady Stark?”

“Yes, of course. I want to go see Drogon and Rhaegal, anyway. Someone knows where Jon is? We’ll go together.” With that, she stood up and left the room, followed by Missandei and her Queensguard, ignoring her Hand’s protests that “there’s still the matter of food we have to address, Your Grace, perhaps now is not the-” He stopped talking by himself when the door shut close, no sign of the dragon queen was even listening to him.

Sansa scowled on his behalf, but Tyrion simply sighed. He seemed disenchanted by the whole situation.

“You could advise the queen to be subtler in her intimidation. Trying to subdue someone works better with innuendos and concealed threats than posting four guards in the same room or boasting about the two fire-breathing creatures one possesses and commands. Anyone else might just think they’ve fallen in disfavor and so try to strike first. Especially in places like King’s Landing.” 

The Queen’s Hand, however, did not seem to have heard her, or taken her words into account. He was staring at an invisible something, deep in thoughts and when he decided to speak them aloud, his gaze remained more troubled than anything else, his voice monotonous, a sharp contrast with the words used. “I just came back from a walk with your brother, my lady, and I cannot help, since I see you here, but recall the last conversation I witnessed between the two of you.” He paused, ran his hand across his face. “Have you come to an arrangement? I heard him say something about we’d all go to Torrhen’s Square, but the way he… he downright refused the thought of you in the battlefield was… was quite… intense.”

She couldn’t help but smile internally at that, the memory of Jon’s assurance of that night coming back in her mind. He doesn’t think me a coward, he is only doing everything he can to keep me out of harm’s way. “You remarked it yourself, my lord, my brother is quite protective. We’re wolves, we protect our pack.”

“And do wolves not protect their mates?”

Daenerys _is **not**_ his ‘mate’. He doesn’t love her, he doesn’t want to marry her. He’s doing all of this to save the North, to save us all. “You said it yourself again, the queen doesn’t want a protective companion.”

“Still, there is a difference between not wanting a protective companion and that companion having no regard for the queen’s safety. Your _brother_ is the one who incited the queen to travel by horseback rather than flying from White Harbor to Winterfell, because ‘it would look better for the Northern Lords’.”

“And it did. I’m sure the people in the North were happy to see my brother back, in front of an army which will help us save millions of innocent lives. The queen must have found the gratitude of the people to her liking, I’m sure.”

“I keep thinking back on his reaction when I made a harmless remark about you, when he arrived at Dragonstone. You see, my lady, I did not expect that such a strong glare be sent my way by a protective brother. Then, in King’s Landing, Euron Greyjoy made a suggestion of a marital or physical nature to our queen and… well… I can’t remember Jon Snow even glaring at him, when I am quite certain he was already in love with Daenerys. And then,” he continued, not letting her the chance of responding, “your brother agreed to teach the queen sword’s tricks while knowing she would never have any use of them, and hastily forbidding you to do the same under the – rightful – protest that the battlefield is a too dangerous place to send our loved ones.”

“It only means that he wishes for her to know how to fight back, should she fall from Drogon.”

“But shouldn’t the fact that she might fall from Drogon inspire in him the same reaction the thought of you, his sister, on the battlefield did? Actually, an even worse reaction would be expected, don’t you think?”

“Dragons have no need for protection. If anything, wolves are the one who could need protection from dragons.”

He looked back at her at that, his face softening. “You have nothing to fear, Sansa,” he hurried to say. “I know you might still resent me for not telling you about the food, and for some other things as well, but know that you’ll always have a friend in me, as well as an ally. The Queen has no intention of betraying you or the North, I promise. And I have not come here to do harm, or to take anything from you.”

Yet, she took the North; she took Jon. What could have been a wonderful familial reunion was the shattering of the closest sibling bond in what remains of my family. Tyrion was sincere, though. He is loyal to the dragon queen and admires her as a great sovereign. “Thank you. What troubles you, then?” she enquired, not forgetting his annoyance nor his sigh.

“The queen… She, erm, has many things on her mind and doesn’t really, how can I put it, know how to prioritize tasks yet.” He paused, gauging her reaction. She did not want to say anything, for it would only quiet him down, or worst, made him doubt her. Her silent and listening face launched him and his concerns unleashed. His words turned angrier by the second.  
“She doesn’t listen to what I say anymore. I mean, you must have seen this. And it wouldn’t be that much of a problem if it didn’t result in such catastrophic situations. She is concentrated on the war and the care for her dragons – which is all to her credit, of course – but administrative and more benign tasks she… fails to recognize their importance too. And she doesn’t talk to anyone but who she already knows. We’ve been here for about a week, and she had only exchanged words with me, Jorah, Missandei, the Dothrakis or the Unsullied, and your brother. I mean no offense in saying this my lady, but she did not see the point of forming any kind of friendly relation with you until I explicitly repeated her to do so. She hadn’t spoken to the Northern Lords, or the Knights of the Vale – and gods know she should – and when she deigned standing beside me as I initiated contact, she stands in silence. Two of our allies were captured, and we still haven’t done a thing to set them free – or at last, I don’t know, make sure they’re alive. I’m trying my best to help her win back her throne; to defeat Cersei and it feels like… she doesn’t give a sh – sorry, my lady, I’m forgetting myself – doesn’t care at all. She’s impulsive and reckless and lethal and these are not-” He interrupted himself, seeming to remember who he was talking about. “I simply wish she’d listen to me a bit more. But… well… She’s a true queen, and I’m only… her Hand. I give advice, she’s the one who choose to whether she follows it or not.”

She offered him a contrite smile while mulling over what he just told her. This wasn’t the speech of a worshipper.

 

Brienne is the one to remind she promised herself she’d eat lunch in the soldiers’ company. Were she here, her mother would probably have been livid and, had they known about it, Jon and Arya would have disapproved but she needed to do it. She wanted the people who fought for the realm’s safety know of her gratitude and her support.

 _I’ll make them love me…_ She could still hear the promise she made to herself all those years ago. She wasn’t going to be a Queen, but that did not make it less true.

They meet up with Ser Jaime in one of the tent, already seated with three plates in front of him and place for two in front of him. Sansa promptly choose to leave the one in front of him free, smiling mischievously when Brienne hover a little before sitting down. He beams at them, looking completely at ease with a wildling woman at his left and a riverman at his right, seated in front of Sansa. She decided to start talking to him as soon as he’ll raise his eyes from his food, leaving Brienne and Ser Jaime with no one to distract them from chatting.

However, her friendly smile disappeared when the dark-haired riverman raised his eyes to her. She watched them widen almost comically – which wasn’t surprising, she was sure her mingling could be perceived at inappropriate for some – and his face pale in a worrisome way. Before she could ask what was wrong, he sprung to his feet, babbled something that sounded like apologies and backed away from her.

She looked around the large tent, finding way and way more people glancing at her. Some simply shrugged or nodded once to salute her, but several men – they were all men, from the Riverlands and the North exclusively – paled or started whispering furiously with one another. She heard bribes of some brawl that happened in the camp this morning and she lipread her name several times. She could feel their gazes following her every movements during the whole meal, which made all her well-meant intentions of spending time with soldiers and new-fighters relegated.  
She wanted to run away from their gazes, but nonetheless couldn’t bring herself to interrupt Ser Jaime and Brienne’s talk, for they were deeply immersed in it and had only had eye for the other and deserved having a moment for themselves without her mingling.

But those looks and those whispers… she couldn’t forget them. It had seemed as if they were wary of her – wary for what? What had she done – or not? They weren’t even Daenerys Targaryen’s men, they were people pledged either to Jon or her and they obviously had a problem with her. It nagged at her because, contrary to almost every other time she was in the wrong, she currently had no idea about this slip-up she made, that affected a dozen of their men since who-knows-how-long.

She worked as hard as she could for the remaining of the day – she felt it was an appropriate way of punishing herself for not knowing and having let down her people in some way. This resulted with her hand aching from gripping her quill too tightly, a pounding headache and feeling no better about the whole situation. At least she got some work done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bets can begin!
> 
> This was a bit of a transitional chapter – next one will have (a lot) more drama.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it all the same.


	9. What was before you? Just a rehearsal of words, of weary acts – then the outbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back in the game! And with the promised drama!
> 
> There was a bit of a delay ‘cause I completely bugged over the next chapter (aka writer’s block): I had the idea and not the words. But yesterday, my muse (an outbreak, so to speak xD) came upon me and I started writing again so here’s the chapter! (aka I just watched _Infinity War_ and it was either writing or thinking of that movie so… erm)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Brienne will come back soon with a goblet of water, she murmured to herself, trying to forget the pain between her eyes from too much work. She had tried to follow her friend’s advice and eat something but the half-eaten apple laying on her desk attested of her failure to do anything else but close her eyes. Every sound seemed decupled and she couldn’t wait to call it a day, lie down on her bed and try to forget that awful day.

Life however, had other plans, for her sister barged into the room, slamming the door behind her with such force Sansa felt the walls rattled. The sound, at last, did resound in her head, making her groan.

“All right, Sansa,” Arya asserted, slamming both her hands on the desk at the same time. She looked half panicked half furious at her – and she still had no idea why. “What’s going on with you and Jon.”

Sansa froze, the question – that did not sound like a question at all – unexpected. She hadn’t said anything to Arya about her realization, considering the wobbly thread that united the two of them. Yet she was determined to obtain answers – which led to another problem: how many people had seen through her carefully constructed – but apparently not well enough – cover. “Please Arya. I promise I’ll explain everything just… sit down. Don’t-don’t speak too loud.” Perhaps it was still salvageable. Perhaps she could try to distract Arya, just like she did with Tyrion. “What exactly have you heard me say? Because I can-”

“It’s not about what I heard. I know words are a fickle thing. Actions, however,” she proclaimed, pacing in front of the desk, “speak louder than words. And what I witnessed this morning? It didn’t look like a brother’s to me, to anyone! Not at all! So, I’m asking you, one more time, what’s going on between you and Jon?”

“What have you seen?”

"Haven't you heard what happened this morning?" She asked incredulous. "Did you spent the whole day buried under paperwork?"

"No! I went to see the dragon queen, talked with Tyrion and ate with the soldiers."

Arya blanched at that "Did they say something to you?"

"Not exactly. But they were acting strangely and-"

"What did they look like? Did they try anything? Gosh I should have been there too. Those cunts-what were you doing near them?"

"They need to see I'm here - those men fight for us, for me. I need to show them some gratitude." She paused, hesitating in correcting her little sister's language. "Did they say something about me? Is that what you heard?" At Arya's narrowed eyes, she knew that's what happened. "Please, you have to tell me what it is. How can I sort things out if I don't know I have to be better."

"You have nothing to change. And certainly not for _them_ , you hear me?" She croaked, her voice turning spiteful. 

"You know what they whisper about me?" It wasn’t really a question, but she wanted to placate Arya from whatever it was so that she could know the truth. Wasn’t it so hard to get? "Please. You're my sister. If I can’t count on your honesty, who else is left?"

"No," She cried, eyes brimming with unshed tears. She was holding them from falling so vehemently her face was red from the effort. "Believe me on that, Sans, you don’t want to know. They're just repellent… folks and you’re better away from them. Just... don't go into camp anymore, even accompanied. Please."

“I won’t do that. Please Arya,” she repeated. She walked to her sister and stopped her pacing, laying both hands on her shoulders and making her look at her. Her throat tightened at the sight of her tears filled eyes. This wasn’t a look she ever wanted her so brave and strong little sister sporting again, ever. “Whatever you heard, I can hear it too,” she declared, her voice strong and steady.

“I’m sorry. They were drunk… A group of men were talking about you, this morning, in one of the Tully’s tent.”

A sudden thought escaped her. “How do you know this?”

“I walk in the camp, sometimes. Wearing some face or another so that I can stay in touch with what the soldiers are doing or talking about. Never mind. One of them was talking about…” she paused once more and scrutinized her sister’s face, ready to stop talking at the first sign. She said the last part in a breath, so quickly Sansa wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “About how he wanted to lay with you before the war.”   
Then, it was as if a dam broke, and words flowed more freely and louder. “Except he did not use those words. He said he won some stupid brawl yesterday and deserved a reward. And you’re the reward, because you’re a lady. You’re the Lady of Winterfell and your former husband was a bastard and he said-he said he must’ve taught you many-many tricks, tricks a proper lady would never know, but you would. And then he-he started describing the things you’d-d do to him, and the others were laughing.” She was fuming now, while Sansa was just… numb. She heard her sister’s words, she felt them touch her, yet she didn’t suffer them.   
“It was sickening, Sans. And I was going to intervene – I had Needle out, I swear I had. I wouldn’t have killed them, even if they deserved it,” she added at Sansa’s widening eyes, “but just… I don’t know cut their tongue out, or one of their hand, or their dicks. Yes, I should’ve done that. Just. I wanted them to _stop_ talking.” Her tone changed drastically at that moment, from fuming she became terrible. “Then Jon burst into the tent. I had barely the time to get Needle that he was already leaping to the talking one. He took him by the furs on his cloak, pulled him on his feet and told him something and then smashed his head on the table – like that,” she mimed the gesture with the half apple on the desk. The result of the smashed fruit made Sansa wince in sympathy – for the fruit, not the unknown man.  
“But his face, Sansa, _his face_. I’ve never seen him look so angry at another person, never. I swear he would’ve killed him on the spot had some guys not intervened. Even the imp was too stunned to move or start babbling the way he does. But… What can’t leave my mind it’s that… he has no right to react like that. I mean – I’m your sister, and even I wasn’t going to react like that. But he’s our cousin, and damn, you two didn’t even used to be that close!”

Sansa was breathing as heavily as her sister. The silence made her ears ring from the suddenness of it. She couldn’t choose between shock at Jon’s reaction, hurt at what her sister’s hinted was said about her by men she had never met and gladness at hearing she wasn’t alone. She babbled some excuse to Arya in a voice so small she was sure it couldn't have been comprehensible.

"Damn, I knew it!" Arya cried out between gritted teeth. "Blood always ends up winning! Always! Except I was wrong on the person concerned: it's not Daenerys Targaryen he wants, it's YOU. His own sister! What kind of man..." Sansa clamped her hand on her sister's mouth, preventing whatever words followed from escaping. She was about to remind once again Arya to stop talking so loudly when she wrenched her hand away and resumed pacing. Sansa turned her back at her, foolishly hoping that if she couldn't see her anymore, everything was going to go back to normal and everyone would still be blissfully ignorant. "What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. All of this is my fault, he’s protecting me. I need him, and he must sense that, he’s only trying to protect me,” she said to the wall. 

But her sister continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “We have to send him away or-or at least warn him not to come close to you anymore. I can do that! I promise he won't touch you - his own sister - how can he..."

The sudden self-interruption made Sansa freeze, dreading what would come next. _Please let it not be Jon_ , she found the time to think before a man's voice rumbled "You shouldn't speak so loudly, Arya Stark. You never know who might be passing in the corridors."

Sansa spun around, her heart in her throat, to see ser Jaime walking to them, his hands raised in a placating gesture. A sob shook her when Brienne appeared behind him, her blue eyes widened and fixed on her. “It’s alright, my lady,” Ser Jaime said in a calm voice, “we’re on your side, Brienne and I. We’re not going to do anything you don’t want us to do.” He stopped a couple of steps away. “We were the only one passing by, I made sure of that; no one else has heard anything,” she did not understand why he kept talking so calmly until she took account of her shaking hands. She had to claps them together to prevent it from showing. “You’re safe, we’re are between friends here. Whatever’s happening, if there’s one person on this damn land who can understand, hate to brag ‘bout it, it’s me.”

She nodded once in acknowledgment before switching her attention on Brienne, her friend – but would she still want to be considered as such? To be associated with her when everybody is persuaded Jon and she are siblings? – who was still leaning on the door, keeping it safely closed. She watched Brienne look around, uncertainty written across her features. 

And it’s the fact that she wasn’t meeting her eyes that broke her heart a bit more and made tears prickle behind her eyelids. “I’m sorry Brienne, I…” She wanted to confess everything, clean her name by revealing his true one. “I never meant for it to happen; it did not, at first. At least I don’t think so.” _He is not really my brother_ – it would be so easy to say. “Maybe it was when we took back Winterfell, or maybe when he left. Maybe already at Castle Black. But never ever I would do a thing!” It wasn’t her secret to tell. “I’m resolute, and I know nothing will ever happen. I know he thinks I’m only his little sister, one he has to protect by all means.”

“What the heck are you talking about? What’s with you?” At least Arya wasn’t howling anymore, but her whispering was as terrible as her shouting.

It had the same effect as being hit across the face with frozen snow. Sansa recoiled while observing the matching shocked look on the three others. What had she done? How could she make such an abhorrent faux pas? What if it had been anyone else? What would Arya think of her, now? And Brienne? What would they say, and to whom? No one could know, for the rivermen and the Knights of the Vale and some of the Northern Lords were mostly loyal to her.  
She felt that she needed to say something, but that this action would only result in more unwanted consequences. No matter what, the ugly truth was out in the open now.

She watched Arya open and close her mouth twice, seemingly at a loss of what her reaction should be. The first one to speak was Ser Jaime and, against all odds, his voice turned surprisingly soft. “Do you love him? As in,” he added after seeing her defensive glare, “you’d do anything to keep him safe or to ensure he remains happy, no matter what it may cost you.” She waited a few beats before nodding once, keeping her eyes on the ground, her failure heavy on her shoulders. “Alright then. I’m sure you’ll find a way. I’m sure we can all agree on the fact that you deserve happiness, the three of us as well as the Northern Lords. They do are quite proud of their Northern blood – perhaps if we insist on the fact that the two of you are half-siblings, and it’s after the war, it could… work.” Sansa abruptly raised her head at that. She had to have misheard something, right? “And that would only be if you actually wished to marry him. People who love each other don’t actually have to marry.”

“No, no,” she had to rectify him. It couldn’t happen. _And the North will never accept a Southern man as its ruler. And it’s good. Anyhow, ruling was never for me. I did not change. I can’t be Aegon Targaryen, neither do I want to be. I’m just… Jon. Is this alright?_ She could still remember the scared look he had on his face, asking her if he was still allowed to be her brother, even if his blood tells a different story.  
Gods, he doesn’t want to be a Targaryen! He’s not going to change his name, and neither he’s going to want to marry his sister!  
“He doesn’t love me. I mean… we’re brother and sister and I… No. He’s Jon.”

“He does,” Arya spoke again, her eyes still fixed on an invisible point, unseeing.

“He loves me like he loves you. We’re family.”

“He doesn’t. You didn’t see how he reacted, you did not see his face when he nearly killed that bloke.”

“It was a one-time occurrence. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know Sansa!” She said, some emotion flowing back on her voice and on her features. “It could. It certainly looked like it could. And I thought it was the weirdest thing that could ever happen. I thought I’d come see you and you’d tell me I was imagining things. That you’d be angry because you knew of Cersei Lannister, and you know it’d… And now, you tell me you…” She twisted her lips in a grimace, unable to utter the word. “Everything is completely weird right now, so don’t expect any declaration of fealty or whatever it was.”

“Of course not. I know what you’re feeling.”

Arya snorted. “No, you don’t.”

“I do. Do you think I just said ‘Oh great, I’m in love with Jon! We’re going to marry and rule the North and have babies! It’d be just like Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys!’ I’m not thirteen anymore, I grew up too. And I do learn from my past mistakes.” 

Arya casted a last look at her, uncertainty shining through her gaze before her protective walls shut into place, hiding her emotions from the rest of the world once again. She nodded and left the room, without a backward glance.

Sansa sighed. She turned back to Brienne but, before she could take a proper look at her friend’s face, a sound similar as a horn blaring resounded in her head, reviving her headache at full force. “It’s coming from the battlements!” Ser Jaime cried, making her freeze on the spot. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“My lady, we should go to the crypts,” she heard Brienne say hastily. Ser Jaime was already gone from the room, and Brienne had her hand on Oathkeeper and her gaze alert.

Sansa’s first move, however, was to go to the window and see if she could take a glimpse of what was going on. It could be anything – a horn blared for battles, yes, but also arrivals. Her uncle has promised carts of food, the dragon queen food from Essos. It could be anything. From the window of her solar, she could only see a part of the courtyard and the stables. People had stopped their training or their walking to face the battlements and a few persons were getting outside Winterfell – ser Jaime with them – but all of this happened in a measured way.

“Let’s go see what it’s about. We need to cross the courtyard to join the crypts, anyway.” She left her solar on those words, Brienne on her heels. They were joined by Ghost at the end of the stairs. He looked like he was coming from the courtyard, but wasn’t blocking the path, so whatever it was, it wasn’t that horrible. The knowledge coupled with the fact that Ghost’s presence was always reassuring did nothing, however, to slow down her pounding heart.

Several gazes turned to her as soon as they stepped in the courtyard. There were no carts of food nor Tully’s banners flying.

“My lady,” a voice called at her right and Lord Royce appeared before her. He quickly bowed before recounting what happened as he leaded her where the crowd was thickest. “I was on the battlements with His Grace when we saw it. At first, we thought it was one of the living one. It occurs it wasn’t. The wight dragon was seen flying a hundred miles away from here before turning back. His Grace wants to march North at dawn.”

At dawn? She had trouble wrapping her mind around this idea. It was so very soon – the sun was already setting down, its rise only a few hours away and… She just wasn’t ready to part with anyone without knowing who she’d see again.

The first person concerned was the one currently following her. She spun on her heels to face her friend – gods, she hoped Brienne did not think less of her for what she just admitted. “You don’t have to stay with me, this evening. I know you’ll already stay at Torrhen’s Square with me and everyone who can’t fight, I’m sorry for that.” At her interrogative expression, Sansa hastily added, “You-you think you’ll be able to forgive me, one day? I don’t want you to be stuck with me, more than you swore you had to, that is.

“I’m not stuck with you, my lady. I never thought-I know that… I mean, a dear friend once told me that we don’t choose who we love, and I know firsthand how true it can be. I-I only wish for you to be happy, my lady. There’s nothing to forgive.”

She offered her friend a small smile and took her hand. “You should go and spend this evening with whoever you want.”

“My primary goal is making sure you are safe. Friends protect each other, you told me that once.”

“Yes! And friends want their friends to enjoy happiness while we can have it,” she cried at her as Lord Royce started gently urging her to resume walking. “I’ll make it an order if I have to! Go!”

“I’ll see you at dawn, lady Sansa!” came the muffled answer. Then, Brienne was lost in the crowd and Sansa hurried to catch up with Lord Royce, muttering an apology.

“You were in your right, my lady. This is a night of farewell for everybody, it is kind of you to do such a thing. I hope you know you can ask for a couple of knight of the Vale to escort you to Torrhen’s Square and guard the place.”

“From my understanding, there is already two knights coming with us. It’s more than enough. The real battle will happen here, men are needed here.”

“Your safety is of paramount importance to us, Lady Stark.”

“Thank you, my lord. I never doubted it.”

They were a bit jostled as they arrived at a little group formed with the dragon queen and her Queensguard, Tyrion, Ser Davos and Jon, who was in deep argument with Arya. Sansa couldn’t suppress a wince at the sight; half due to the fact they were still at odds even with separation a few hours away, and half in anxiety of Arya revealing what she just learnt.

Lord Royce excused himself and went to talk to Ser Davos, Sansa moving closer to Jon and Arya.

“-me. Nowhere is safe, and you’re the best fighter in single combat that I’ve ever seen. You have to be there.”

“I want to fight in the battlefield. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Sansa’s got Brienne and a dozen knights. She’s going away from the battle. She’ll be safe.”

“There is no need to take unnecessary risks. Please Arya. You’re the only one I fully trust for the job. Besides-”

“I’m a great fighter!”

“I’m not contesting that! You’ve just never fight in an actual battle! It’s not the same to kill people a few at a time and to be constantly attacked from everywhere.”

Arya turned her head at her, then, her glare only softening a little bit. “Fine,” she conceded to what appeared to be a lasting argument, before striding to Winterfell, without looking back. Jon quickly ran a hand across his face.

“This is no time for quarrel,” she heard Tyrion claim. Jon switched his attention on him, ignoring her, but she did not take her eyes away from him. If there were only a few hours lasting, some of them he’ll spend sleeping, she wanted to make every second count. Memorize his face as the sun disappeared over the horizon and torches were lighted by the second. When was the last time she saw him in daylight?  
Stop thinking such horrible things, she chided herself, he’s going to come back. He’s going to win this war and come back to me, to us.  
“This is the last night before the greatest war seen by mankind. Let us all enjoy it while we’re all warm and breathing.” Tyrion chuckled bitterly at that, before adding, “I’ve only been in two battles in my whole life, and before each one I’ve asked the woman I loved to make love to me as if it were my last night on this earth. And she did, and I survi-”

Jon’s eyes darted to her for a small moment – so small she would’ve missed it had she not be observing him so thoroughly – he probably was not even conscious of it, but it still made her heart stop.

Her mind remained blank even after that half-second has passed, even after Tyrion finished telling his little story. Then, her face flared up, quickly followed with her entire body. Her heart started beating again, loudly, strongly, supplying the evidence to her mind.

_Where will we go?_   
_It could be beautiful. Song worthy, even, Your Grace._   
_You’re still just as kind and gentle and-and radiant as you were, and you’re resilient and righteous and smart as well and just- there’s so much more…_   
_Until I return, the North is yours._   
_Alright, sweet one. I’m staying, as long as you want me to._   
_I missed you._   
_It's not Daenerys Targaryen he wants, it's YOU!_   
_I’ve been… careless since Bran told me – thankfully, be that as it may, no one put two and two together, yet._

The way he scrambles to make sure she’s safe or to defend her, the way he looks at her when they’re alone, the way he speaks and listens to her, the way he ensures she’s smiling when she comes to him after a nightly terror. All those things and so much more that made her realize she loves him, could it be? Was she too blinded by trying to hide what she’s feeling to notice he may feel the same?

Could they be?

“-ptable. Sansa, what do you think?”

“What?”

He smiled softly at her, his eyes tinted with sadness. “Daenerys suggested all those who need to ride to Torrhen leave immediately.”

“No!” she blurted out instinctively. “It-it just seem a bit cruel to separate loved ones just for a few hours’ gain. Besides, there is no use anymore to leave for Torrhen’s Square: only one cart of food was send this afternoon and traveling with what should be needed for the duration of the battle will only slow us down. I think it’s better if we all end up staying here. This is the safest place we can be.”

Lord Royce backed her, as always. “I must agree with Lady Sansa, my lord. Winterfell has the stock of food and the castle is strong. I think we can spare a couple of knights of the Vale for lady Stark’s safety.”

“Alright.” He breathed before closing the distance between them. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly while his gloved hand took hold of her own. “I’ll see you on the morrow then,” he murmured.

He disappeared in the crowd before she had the chance to find her voice back, the dragon queen trailing behind him and inviting him to her chambers for the night. Sansa was obliged to follow her handmaiden back to her bedroom when she wanted nothing else but to take Daenerys by the hair if need be and drag her away from Jon.

She sent her handmaiden away with about the same speech as with Brienne and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

She spied Jon go back to his rooms, dreading the moment she’ll saw him cross again the courtyard to the castle. She waited, her supper put in front of her, waited some more until she heard Brienne and ser Jaime’s voices passing in the corridor. Waited, waited, waited.  
Perhaps I missed him. Perhaps it’s already too late.

Her decision taken, she put her cloak back on, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to close an eye anyway. It’d be embarrassing if anyone recognized her, so she swiftly braided her hair and hid it under the hood, even prior she left her bedroom.

I need to tell him, I need to be sure.

She walked as fast as she could without making too much noise. The corridors were desert, most of the castle inhabitants were at home, with loved ones. Her steps only faltered as she came closer to Arya’s door.

She could see the light under the door but did not hear any sound coming from the inside. Not wanting to push her luck too much, she rasped her knuckles once against the wood, saying softly “Good night, little sister,” to the door before resuming walking, at a much slower pace. One step – she wanted Arya to answer – two – even if it was through the door – three – just to make sure she hadn’t ruined everything – four – with her stupid… “Goodnight, Sansa,” was the muffled answer.

Still, it was an answer, and it gave her the last missing bit of hope she needed to put back a spring in her steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated for the place of the ‘cut’ moment – it was either here or 3-4 paragraphs further. But the latter was even more of a cliffhanger than this one, so I was nice and went with the former.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this one! There wasn’t much on-screen (paper?) Jon-Sansa interactions but the next one will make up for it. I hope.


	10. I'm not a bleedin' poet but...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay,  
> 1- The title *wink wink* is a clue to what’s happening in this chapter – inter alia – referring this amazing piece of dialogue of S4E9 between Jon and Sam just before the wildlings attack of the Wall (I actually can’t remember the real name of this battle and am too lazy right now to search, so let’s call it that). So, as you can see in the tags, rating changes for this chapter. If it bothers you, or you’re not in the mood for my first attempt at writing a smut-y chapter, just skip the last part of the chapter
> 
> 2- As much as I wish it wasn’t, due to Sansa’s personal history with men (to put it mildly), there are mentions of past rape/non-con and there could be some moments at first connected to dubious consent, mostly due to her trauma and her distorted idea about sex (that has been hinted in previous chapters). 
> 
> 3- I’m anxious. Like really really anxious. I’m babbling in this note as a way to postpone the moment I’ll have to click on the ‘post’ button.
> 
> 4- Title is also a reference of ‘everything before the word but…’ line
> 
> 5- As some of you might have noticed, the delay between chapters is a bit longer than what it used to be. Part of it is due to the chaotic end of semester (May ‘68 anniversary = blocked college, no courses…), the exams coming up, the arrangements for a summer job – y’know _la routine_. Most of it, however is due to this massive MASSIVE writer block I just endured concerning this chapter. I had the scene in my mind, I have the rest of the story planned out – but this chapter just wouldn’t. happen. flowingly. enough. However, with this chapter done and posted, hopefully things will pick up again.
> 
> 6- This note is so long it’s getting ridiculous
> 
> 7- Yes, I’ll stop writing stupid things and leave you to the chapter
> 
> 8- It’s just… gaaahhh! Still anxious.
> 
> 9- **“Let’s do this gangsta!”**

She wants to say she hesitated - or at the very least that she was pondering - before knocking on his door, be it for coyness or property sake, but she was too set for that. She heard him shuffling around aimlessly, before the sound of steps stopped. “Tell her I’m on my way,” Jon sighed, his words muffled through the wooden door. Her throat constricted at his defeatist attitude, but it only confirmed she was doing the right thing.

“It’s not Daenerys,” she said, the name drowned in hurried footsteps. The door opened, Jon filling her line of vision. As usual, his eyes darted around to ensure no one could see her waiting before his threshold, resting on her at the very last moment. Even though she was wearing her hood, had braided her hair and the castle was mostly empty.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rumbled. He always said that, each time dragging it longer but each time yielding and granting her access at the end. This evening, however, they did not have the time for these courtesies. He was riding to war on the morrow, she had no want of wasting any time. She knew he would let her enter, he knew it too. Indeed, he did just that after a short staring match.

“We need to talk about us,” she asserted once they were both facing the other in his bedroom, trying to stay focused. She couldn’t help but throw a furtive glance to his bed and was currently fighting a blush at the thought of what she was about to say, and what it could result to. Her stomach twisted with nerves – and perhaps something else – as she noticed his gaze lingering on her, his hand curling and uncurling slowly as if he wanted to hold hers but being unable to do so by some force or another. Still feeling brave from her noticing those kind of things, she took a step toward him and clasped his hand in hers. He didn’t make a move to prevent her.

_I really should stop overanalyzing everything, it only makes me even more nervous._ She took a deep breath, the shaky exhale that followed made his brows furrows slightly but she decided to focus her attention on their joined hands. She licked her lips once, twice and told him everything.

She told him why she acted the way she had done those last days in his presence, or with the dragon queen, or with the lords.

“Sansa…”

She told him how she felt every time she saw him smile, every time she heard him talk, every second he was in the same room and every second he spent so far away.

“Sansa, I…”

She told him that he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, that she just couldn’t waste any more time pretending, that they could be.

Then, she looked back up at his face, his features frozen in a stunned expression. He only needed to answer, and she’d do whatever he’d ask of her. He did not even have to say a word, if he’d rather, just cradle her face and do whatever he’d like.  
She took a step closer, her eyes searching for any sign of rejection, and pressed her lips to his. There it was; the stolen kiss. Yet air was normally flowing in their chest, the room didn’t light itself on fire, her father’s ghost didn’t appear to damn the both of them for eternity. No, nothing of that. Instead, Jon’s hands gripped her shoulders while she was focused on the loud beating of her heart and the tingling sensation in her lips.

He sighed her name. “I shouldn’t… We can’t-”

“We can,” she took a shaking breath. He had to believe her, why didn’t he believe her? “We could get married, live together here. I know you want me, at least more than you want her. I could make you happy, I can do this. I know you would make me happy, and I… I promise I’ll make you smile at least once a day.” She pressed on, refusing to acknowledge the meaning of him shaking his head.

“We wouldn’t. Sansa, you’re a lady, you’re a queen in everything but in name, and even this – it’s just for now. Listen,” he asked, cradling her face in his hands, his thumb stroking her cheek as he looked at her with sad eyes, “there’s only one way you could have the life you deserve. Daenerys won’t accept a Queen for the North, but she’s easily fooled if distracted. If I survive tomorrow, I’ll have to go with her to King’s Landing – she wants me to serve as Lord Commander in her Queensguard.”

“What?”

“I’ll have a place in the Small Council there, she’ll listen to me. And you’ll be in Winterfell, with Arya and Bran, as Wardeness of the North. You’ll have full power over the North, anything you need, you just write to me and I’ll handle Daenerys. She will listen to me.”

“And if I need you here, beside me?”

“You won’t,” he said, after swallowing hard. “You’re good at ruling, better than I am.”

She kept herself from rolling her eyes. “I can’t rule alone. Before long, I’ll be required to marry someone, and he’ll be the warden of the North.”

“You wouldn’t be forced to marry anyone you don’t want to. You’d be the most powerful person in the North, with the support of the Vale and the Riverlands. Your uncle swore to back your decisions and, well I’ve never met your cousin, but I’m sure it’d be the same for him. And even if not, Lord Royce’s loyalty to you is evident.” He laid a quick kiss on her forehead and stepped back, signaling the end of the discussion. As if she was going to let him dismiss her that easily! They could still get married – in fact, it’d strengthen his position in the North. “The Northern Lords will never accept it. They’ll want you to marry someone from the North, not a Targaryen. They’ll want a reasonable marriage, one for the North, not one born of passion.”

That cut off her reply before she could form it. Damn the northerners and their pride! She wished for nothing more than to shut them out and allow herself that one bit of happiness. “Would it be born of passion for you too?” she asked, her voice a bit throaty.

“It doesn’t matter. We should spare ourselves from that answer. I’m escorting you back to your chambers – or no, I… where’s Brienne?” His eyes darted around his bedroom, as if Brienne was hiding in a corner and suddenly going to make herself known.

“With ser Jaime. You would marry me? If,” she specified when he started to talk his way out of it once more. She stepped in front of him, preventing him from leaving her so soon. “Daenerys was out of the question. If she didn’t exist. If it was just you and me…”

He let his head fall back and closed his eyes for a long moment. “It cannot matter,” he croaked, looking back at her. “She’s here. She’s part of my family, whether I like it or not.”

“But what if-”

“What do you want me to say? That I’d do anything to make all our problems fly away. That I’d give anything to suppress the threat from the North and the threat from the South and live as I want in Winterfell with Bran and Arya, as a family, and you as my wife. Of course I want that! It sounds wonderful – it’s everything I ever remembered wanting, and even what I know I shouldn’t want.” He threw his hands up, the sudden movement making her startle by the force he put into it. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant by that. “Because all this – family, home – is not for me. _’I am the shield that guards the realm of men’, and that’s enough._ It should be enough! But it’s not…” He sighed again, “It cannot matter.”

“It can!” she cried, horrified. “It will!”

“There’s no time for that. I don’t want to fight with you tonight, Sansa.”

“We’re not fighting! I’m trying to make you see reason. We both want a marriage, we should have one.”

He scoffed at that, but it sounded more directed to him than to her words. And when he spoke, the finality of his tone was faltering. “You deserve much more than a bastard. I won’t let you be sold off to one again, my lady. Nor will the lords. I said I’d protect you, and I will.”

Now, we are going to fight, she thought. “I don’t need protection from you! And we’re not talking about me being sold off, but us marrying because, for once, we both want to.”

“No one is going to accept this!”

“And you’re not a bastard! You are Jon, a Stark, a Targaryen, the King in the North, something else – I don’t care what name you choose to have. You’re you. You’re many things, but bastard isn’t one of them.” She stopped, tried to put her breathing pattern back under more control.

He took that opportunity to speak back. “That’s not how it’s going to look. I’ve been a bastard my whole life, was raised as one, was treated as one – it’s not going to change over one night. If we marry, people will blame it on my bastard blood for me, and on you spending years under the influence of Cersei Lannister!”

She recoiled from his words, a sharp intake of breath escaping her and making him stop. She bit her tongue to attempt to keep a tear from falling. _I’m not Cersei. I’m not Cersei._  
Was it what people were going to think, too? Reconcile the two of them?  
 _No, I’m not Cersei._  
Was it what he was thinking?  
 **I’m not Cersei.**  
Yet she wasn’t that different from her, wasn’t she? Perhaps she was just like her, even after years of not seeing her.  
I don’t want to be Cersei.  
But was it enough?

“Do you think I’m her?”

He frowned and the implication of what he just said seemed to dawn on him. Immediately, he looked repentant, which soothed her. He doesn’t think I am. “I don’t. I didn’t mean- I shouldn’t have said that. Of course, you’re not Cersei Lannister, you’ve got nothing to do with her. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she hastened to say. Her mouth twisted in a wince when she noticed that her scurry stopped him from taking a hold of her hand. “Jon?” she tentatively called him. “I’m sorry, too. You shouldn’t have to go through such a length only because you don’t want to marry me. It’s not fair of me to press the issue.”

“Do you- do you really want… I mean- it’s not just because I’m going to war, is it?”

“I love you,” she whispered, losing herself in his eyes. “I wanted you to know that, I wanted to be honest. I don't want to spend the next hours regretting being too much of a coward and saying nothing. You deserve to know you’ve got a choice. Leaving for King’s Landing, serving in the Queensguard – you don’t have to do it.”

“I do,” he answered, after a few unsuccessful tries. “She’ll never accept me leaving her, and marrying, especially when she’ll know I’m her nephew. Members of the Queensguard can’t hold lands, can’t marry nor father children – all in all, you see, it won’t be a huge change for me. I will only wear a white cloak instead of a black one.” He stretched his lips in a grimace then chuckled when she offered no reaction, “That was supposed to make you smile.”

“It’s not,” she croaked. “You being all sacrificial is never going to make me smile.”

“What will, then?”

“Do what you want; what makes you happy.”

That made _him_ smile. A true one, one she didn’t witness many times, one that lit up his face and made little creases appear near his eyes. He took a step closer, so that their bodies were nearly touching.

I remember the last time he smiled like this, she thought suddenly, it was before he was named King. Just after he kissed her forehead, on the battlements. Did he remember this, too? Right now? She lowered her head and closed her eyes when she felt his hand cupping the side of her head, just like he had done that time. She suppressed a giddy chuckle at the thought that forehead kisses were something that quickly became a regular occurrence between them – first on the battlements, then every time she left his room after one her nightmares, then every time one of them left the other’s room after talking. It had become a habit before his departure South, and she hadn’t thought twice about it. She had missed them when he had been away. And since he came back, they never had time on their own, so she kept on missing them. Tonight, though, was a rare treat: two kisses from him, and one kiss – a true but stolen one – by her.

She felt his hands hovering by her cheeks, the tips of his finger brushing lightly her face, making her shiver before the sensation vanished. She felt his nose briefly touch her own, but she didn’t have time to think about it before his lips brushed hers.

Her eyes fluttered open, the touch so light she must have imagined it. His eyes were watching her face, so intently she sucked a breath. She raised one hand to his face, then, because she wanted to – uncertainly at first, because she may long to touch him, may yearn for him to kiss her again and again and again, but she didn’t want to just take, and then more surely, when she saw he wasn’t stepping back from her anytime soon. She felt her lips curve into the beginning of a smile, but its shaping was interrupted with another kiss. And another. And another.

She quickly lost count on how many times he kissed her, instead focusing on the tingling sensation she was feeling and the tentative warmth that graced her face, warmth that only intensified when she started returning them with more confidence once the initial surprise had passed.

He was the one who broke the moment, leaving her panting softly. “Can I touch you?” he said hoarsely, making her notice that while she had one hand tangled in his hair and the other resting on his shoulder, his remained clasped behind his back.

She looked at him in puzzlement, not understanding his attitude. In every kisses she had – and the few ones she witnessed – men usually couldn’t keep their hands to themselves and clasped, groped, palmed as they pleased.  
Yet here Jon was, after already a few exchanged, asking- asking for… permission? That was unexpected.

But kind of him to leave her a fair warning, she thought, nodding. “You can do whatever you want,” she assured him, already half-closing her eyes to lose herself in his kisses once more. They were nice, and the warmth they inspired was unlike any she had ever experienced, more pleasant than humiliating. If she could focus on those rather than the groping and the palming, it could even turn out agreeable, she believed.

“I’ll do whatever _you_ want,” he corrected, still unmovable. “I don’t want you to be scared of me.” His voice was so intense it nearly brought tears in her eyes. What did she do to deserve someone so considerate?

“I’m not,” she said, willing her own voice to come out as confident and unwavering as his. “I trust you. And,” she pointed out when he didn’t seem fully convinced, “you need to trust me on this too. I love you, I’m not scared, and I want this,” she looked pointedly at her hands as they were untying her cloak. She knew her meaning was clear when his gaze remained fixed on her hands and this time, she didn’t completely suppress her victorious half-smile, “with you.”

He stopped her cloak’s fall to the floor to throw it on the chair near the glowing hearth. And, once that little reassuring speech was done and passed, so were the remains of his last reservations. She pressed her body against his in a bold inspired move, leaning back her upper body just enough to rest both her hands on his chest as he surged forward, their lips meeting again, more heatedly than ever. His hands were at her lower back, the tip of his fingers pressing through her dress to bring her even more close than she already was and keeping her there.

She could feel her heart thundering in her chest, and the warmth that was settled in her belly starting to extend everywhere, which made her head spin. Her fingers searched for the lace keeping his leather tunic bound, wanting to see him out of his clothing and discard hers, in vain as it was impossible to find it. He broke the kiss then and guided her hands to her prize. “Breathe, Sansa,” he murmured, a gleam in his eyes, waiting until her dizziness dissipated before closing them again and starting a trail of kisses to her throat.

Her found-back breath hitched as she became able to distinguish the mix of sensations overpowering her: embarrassment for forgetting when to breathe, ticklish shivers of his beard against the soft skin of her cheek, nerves at what was going to come, joy at being in his embrace while embracing him and mostly… mostly… heat.   
That inexplicable heat that wasn’t making itself known for the first time, but always in relation to Jon, and that brought back distant memories of a special knight joining the Night’s Watch in the Winterfell of her childhood, or of a gallant smile, curled hair and nice hands that had gifted her with a red rose long ago.

“May I?” He asked again, his hands hovering once more at the secure knot at her lower back, waiting for her nod before making another move. To distract herself from the feeling of her dress coming loose – although in a much more leisurely pace than what she was accustomed to – she focused on returning the attention.

Her attempt involved a lot more fumbling than his steady hands’ work. At her defense, it was the first time she disrobed a man while being unable to look at what she was doing and being distracted by his kisses, his hands, his breathing, his everything and wondering what things were inaudibly mouthed against her skin.  
Gods, anyone, please let him not notice my fumbling! She prayed quickly. He was so considerate to her, not moving too hurriedly, his hands always gentle – she wanted to give him perfection in return. Yet the difference in how she expected him to act and how considerate he remained was pulling her out of her secure framework of straight-forward humiliation and pain. It also brought back some distant certainty, nurtured by soft reassurances from her mother and Margaery Tyrell’s whispered description, both forgotten with the passage of time.

At last, she removed the binding of his tunic as she took notice that the mouthing was still happening, only now intersected with open-mouthed kisses. He wasn’t biting her, and that was a relief – she knew all too well what unexpected biting felt like, and she knew she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from trying to win her way out of his reach. She didn’t want to dwell over the reaction he’d have at that. She wanted to keep on her wonder on the present moment, and leave herself in his hands, as she should.

His face left the crook of her neck and she spurned into action, not wasting any more time in distracting him from her unattractively flushed face. She pressed her lips first to his cheek then to his mouth, her hands occupied with removing his tunic. However, she found herself gasping when she felt his tongue lick her lips and completely abandoning her train of action in favor of losing herself in sensations. She was so far gone she didn’t notice the keening sound bubbling in her throat until it was too late, and then it was out, and her cheeks flushed crimson. Jon chortled when her first reaction was to hide her face in her palm and castigate herself internally for this definitively unattractive and unladylike reaction.

“Sorry…” She barely heard him say when it was becoming clear she wasn’t moving. And she wasn’t! Especially when she could still hear a smile in his voice. She wanted the floor to open and make her disappear before he could see her red face or hear any other… sound. What a good distraction it ended up being! “What’s wrong?” he asked, still smiling.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Sansa.” His voice was deadly serious. She let her hands fall away from her face, raising her eyebrows, unconvinced. “I swear I’m not. I’m…” Wait… Is he blushing, too? “glad you sound so… pleased. Means I’m doing something right.” He was definitely blushing and… well… it pleased her, to see him affected. It meant she was doing something right.

“People used to tell me I look like a pomegranate when I am blushing…”

“They’re wrong.”

That restored some of her confidence and she smiled sheepishly at him. She let her dress fall on the floor, putting aside her nerves by observing his eyes and blush darken. From how close they were standing, he couldn’t see her legs – where that still-red scar was peeking from underneath her silk shift – and he stood unmoving, his eyes fixed on her face, for which she was grateful for it allowed her to decide when he’d look at her body. She made those backwards steps as soon as she felt ready and, not wanting to stand like an idiot in the middle of the room, swiftly unbraided her hair – not that it wasn’t already half done by Jon’s fingers – and sat down on his bed.

He didn’t make a move, didn’t utter a word as he watched her alternatively fiddle with the hem of her shift or the furs of his bed. She took care of her boots while he seemed lost in thoughts. Then, slowly, he copied her and stood hovering above her while she made sure to keep her eyes firmly on her hands, neatly folded in her lap. He knelt in front of her after a few minutes of silence, his hand grasping her chin and tilting it up, so she looked at him in the eye when they didn’t switch on their own. He was looking at her reverently. “You still sure?” he rasped. She nodded, glad to find that she still wasn’t lying to him in her answers. “Alright.” He kissed her on her right cheek. “Tell me, if so.” Her left. “Or if you don’t like it.” Between her brows. “Anything.” Her mouth. At last.

She didn’t lose any more time in false modesty and mimicked his actions from earlier. He tasted like that awful ale he brought from Castle Black and she had made sure it was available in a jug at every meal and he had some near his chamber. Their lips and tongues engaged in some sort of dance – one they were both learning the steps on the spot. His shirt was taken off faster than his tunic was and, at last, his chest was laid bare beneath her hands. She let her hands brush over and caress to her heart’s content, marveling at the smooth skin, the shivers and the coiled muscles – at his tenderness, his desire and his strength.

“I’m not made of porcelain, you know, I won’t break,” she murmured against his lips, taking his bottom one between hers and grazing lightly her teeth before laying back on his bed, eliciting a groan.

“I know I’m- I’m having a bit of trouble believing you’re really here, that it’s… really you.” He blurted, his blush extending to his neck, his attention focused on his finger dipping under her wool stocking to brush along the sensitive skin of her thigh.

She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. “I’m really here.” She used him as a leverage to raise herself and sit, finding it uncomfortable to be wantonly laying on display while he was still kneeling on his own bed. It seemed like the right thing to say, for his eyes were blazing and suddenly his hands were caressing everywhere, his lips stroking and kissing every bit of skin they had access to, so she threw her head back to give him a larger path. He murmured her name over and over, as if he still did not believe it was her. Sometimes, he would look back in awe at her face, or – surprisingly – at his own hands stroking over her silken shift. Every place they touched, her skin prickled and her lower belly seemed to twist and, for the first time, she **wanted**. She wanted the feel of him inside her, wanted to hear his breath stutter, wanted his hands to press and stroke and touch. She was so consumed by that desire she didn’t notice at first that the roaming of his hands in her back increasingly resembled searching. That coupled with the aborted sighs that sounded more frustrated than aroused made her bite back a smile. As it turns out, he doesn’t _know_ everything, she smugly thought as she guided his hands to the front of her shift where the lace was.

“Sorry,” he rasped. “I saw how your dress was tied the last… but under it I’ve… obviously.” His babbling didn’t make much sense to her, but it had the benefit of keeping her mind focused on something that wasn’t how much she wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him and never let go.

She fell back on the bed, bringing him to lay on top of her with such strength he scrambled to rest his weight on his elbows and knees, which were bracketed by her own thighs. He left a trail of kisses from her mouth to her navel, sending shivers to the back of her spine and her back arch. “What is that?” she choked when she felt him again mouthing something against her skin. “What’re you saying?”

“Mostly I love you,” he simply declared, “and how beautiful I find you.”

She smiled bashfully, “Why don’t you say it aloud, then? Since it’s sweet, I should like to hear it.”

“I didn’t want you to laugh at me…” He adverted his eyes, his palms leisurely stroking up and down her legs. “Or to think me a fool.”

Why would I laugh at that? Why would I think that? But she knew she couldn’t ask that, not if she wanted to reassert the mood. “If I get to do what I want, you get to say whatever you wish to say.”

“Alright then. Do you trust me?” He looked pointedly at his hands, grazing her smallclothes, his real question clearly hinted. She nodded – perhaps a bit too enthusiastically – but what mattered is that, a few seconds later, her smallclothes were lying somewhere in his room and were quickly followed by his breeches.

He seemed to understand that thorough kissing was the only way to soothe her nerves and keep the simmering memories away, and she tried to make her gratitude known through every breaths she took. Her hand ghosted over the taut skin of his belly, lower and lower until it was stopped by one of his. “You first,” he shakily said.

_Me first?_ What could that possibly…

Her train of thoughts was stopped when he moved down on her body, her body tensing at the unexpected movement. “Breathe, Sansa.”  
Yes, she would. She focused on getting her breathing under control, as if nothing strange was happening right this moment, as if she knew exactly what he had in mind.  
“May I?” he inquired once more. She nodded her assent – whatever it was, he obviously wanted to do it.

She let out a chocked sound when he put his mouth on her… _Jon_ … His… _Jon, Jon…_ Gods, she couldn’t even think straight! The weirdness of the sensation faded away the longer he stayed between her legs, kissing, licking at her core, his hands stroking her legs and her groin, in favor of her body arching, going tense not from nerves but from pleasure.

She couldn’t find it in herself to be humiliated at the sounds that escaped her lips, in between her ragged exhales. It was all becoming louder when his finger grazed at her, finding a spot that made her vision blur, her hips roll. _Jon, Jon_. She hooked a leg around him, full well knowing that it wasn’t that that would stop him should he jerk away, but some part of her mind hoping he would take the silent beg and keep on.

But no, Jon was Jon – he wouldn’t. Not when she was so near. She did trust him.

She sounded as if she was whimpering his name, though she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure of anything but the reality of him between her legs, gut-twisting pleasure sparking all over her body. It kept on growing, even if she thought that was it, that it might explode after every wave, every clench.

It did explode at the end; pleasure pulsing and fire lighting her blood. _**Jon**_.  
She savored her bliss, barely aware of Jon moving back on top of her, whispering endearments in her ear.

She felt herself blush when she saw the state of his face – and his mouth, gods, his mouth – not from embarrassment but contentment. She felt more relaxed than she ever remembered being and, when she spread her legs wider, her core clenched from anticipation. Not fear, never again, she vowed, not when it feels so good.

“Was-” He started huskily, tried clearing his throat, giving up when it turned out to be useless. Or perhaps it was because one of her hand had finally taken a hold of his manhood and stroked as best as she was able given their current position, before she was pressing him against her core, waiting for him to make the next move. Instead, he kept on panting against her lips. “Sansa, I- I’m not going to…”

She frowned at that, dread settling in her stomach, all her prayers quenched. “Do you not want to… with me? Did I do something wrong?”

He let out a huffing noise. “No! It’s just… Let’s do something else?”

“Alright,” she said, lowering her eyes, curious about what he had in mind. But still, she had to make sure of something first, “Will you like it?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. And so, he moved back down on her, closed her legs and licked at her thighs. “Can you hold them like that?”

She turned on her side, arranging her hair and biting her lip at the residue of desire that dawned on her when he laid behind her. His chest hair was tickling, one of his arm curled around her, the hand holding her hip and his other cupping her breast. She felt his breath hitch when he thrusted between her thighs.

He was peppering kisses over her shoulder, her throat, his thumb stroking her breast as he started building a rhythm, sending a tingling sensation at her core. But no, she had her time, this was about him now. She focused on lightly brushing his arm, which made him shiver, while her other hand was alternating between racking through his curls and massaging his neck, which elicited louder moans than when he was only thrusting.

The downfall of kisses turned into gentle biting and sucking; and the hand that was holding her tight against him wandered when it became obvious she wasn’t going anywhere. It still found its way back to her womanhood, making her swallow back a whimper. She already had her time. She could resist the temptation. “Yes?” she heard him whisper. She shouldn’t. This was about him, his pleasure, his- “Please.”

His fingers took care of her frustration and she closed her eyes at the wave of heat unfurling on her. It wouldn’t last for as a long time as the first time, she found herself thinking, it was much more, so soon. Yet she continued her actions, mindful of his pleasure just as he was mindful of hers.

She felt the rhythm of his hips faltering, his hand working more intently before stopping completely, felt him panting loudly and burying his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder before he tensed and spilled, shivers racking his body.

Their breaths were the only sound that could be heard in the room for a moment, both trying to regain some sort of composure. She felt him twist – as if he wanted to go away, which made no sense since she wasn’t holding him. She understood when he settled down with his shirt in hand and swiftly swiped away the remnants of his pleasure before tossing the cloth away.

“You-you didn’t?”

“It’s alright,” she quickly assured him, adverting her eyes. “You don’t need to.” Which wasn’t complete lie – he didn’t _need_ to, she would have preferred to experience it again, but that was just her being greedy. He nodded once, his hand coming to rest against her anyway. Well, in that case, you wouldn’t hear her complain.  
It was over quickly, pleasure rushing from his steady stroking and enhanced by the gentle words that fell through his lips.

She remained immobile until he turned on his back, the smaller size of his not-quite double bed compelling her to turn on her side, facing him. She lost herself admiring his relaxed features, feeling drowsy, when his gaze caught hers and she remembered her manners, looking down.

“Why d’you do that?” he sleepily mumbled. Then, when she didn’t offer any answer, he wriggled so that he was looking at her in the eyes once again, tilting her chin up in order to keep their gazes locked. “On the ground. Your eyes. Sometimes you lower them. You do that. Why?”

“It’s a sign of respect. Ladies must always be humbled before their lords… partner.”

He frowned, still half-asleep, which supplied her with a heart-melting picture she made sure to etch in her mind. “That’s stupid. You shouldn’t do that. Ever.”

“I didn’t want to offend you,” she confessed.

“You won’t. Anyone who’s offended by that, you tell me, and I’ll set their mind straight.” He opened his arms at that, closing them around her, cradling her close.

They exchanged a few more sleepy sentences before the purring of voices coming from the feast outside mingling with their own breathing made Jon fall asleep, Sansa not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think?


	11. When love parts way, there can be no winner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow… I’m so thrilled over the response of the last chapter!! Thank you!! I really didn’t expect it and it was like… Well, usually I get about 800 hits on the first two days after a post. Last chapter brought more than 1 100 hits in the first 48h.
> 
> So for the newcomers (is it the change of rating? I feel like it is): welcome!  
> And for everyone: thank you for coming back chapter after chapter :)
> 
> Anyway, I’m leaving you with the new one: enjoy!

She couldn’t remember a more bittersweet awakening than the one she lived this morning. The last vestige of warmth and memory of Jon’s arms around her were fading away with the icy whirlwind of dawn, as she watched men, women and children, dressed in the thickest furs they could find, armed to the teeth, march away to the deadliest battle everyone has ever feared. Sansa stood tall, willing herself to swallow back tears: she wasn’t going to fight, so she needed to remain strong – at least until they were all gone. That thought brought another wave of despair on her face and she focused on petting Ghost for a bit, her long hair falling over her face and hiding her screwed shut eyes from view.

Her first reaction, once fully woken up this morning, had been to burrow her face in Jon’s chest and holding him as tightly as she was able to. He said nothing of that, only returning her embrace, letting her draw strength from his presence. She may have shed a tear or two but, thankfully, he said nothing of that either. She had reiterated her demand of an explicit promise that he’d come back, but it ended up as unsuccessfully as the first time. “We need to kill the Night King” wasn’t a “Yes, I will”. It wasn’t even a “I’ll be careful, won’t do anything reckless like trying to end the war on my own, even if it ends up with me being killed”.

She had to leave then, return to her chambers before anyone noticed her absence. She hadn’t come across a soul on her way back, except two already-dressed kitchen girls going down the stairs, who turned out to be even more surprised at meeting someone than Sansa was. One of the girl had then asked her if Sansa would have any need of moontea – she could find some and pass to her discreetly – before promising she would not tell anyone she saw her outside her bed so early, even though according to the other one “Everyone would be thrilled to know you happy, lady Stark.”  
So far, Sansa hadn’t catch on any whisper nor knowingly-look thrown her way, so she supposed the girls had, indeed, kept their encounter a secret. Thank the gods for small mercies, she thought, the reprieve she felt washing away her sadness. She was strong and had the support and love of the Northerners.

So, she willed herself to offer a smile, clasp outstretched hands and saying words of encouragement – while knowing that more than half of them, in the best possible outcome, would never pass through the gates of Winterfell again, not alive at least. Some were concerned, a few wore focused expressions – like little lady Lyanna Mormont – but most of them looked terrified. She saw Brienne and ser Jaime come to where she was standing, the former stopping just behind her while the latter turned to face them.

“I sincerely hope I’ll see you again, lady Stark.”

“I hope so, too.” She didn’t expect those words to be so sincere, but they were. She couldn’t say she considered him as a friend, but felt as if it could be this way, should they win this war. “Truly,” she added, not wanting him to think she was only being courteous.

The smile he wore at her words faded a little when Tyrion came to them, stopping at her left and shifting when three pairs of eyes fell on him, yet no one said a word. His, however, barely strayed from his brother.

“Please, be the smart man I’ve always known you were.” Ser Jaime sighed, then held a hand up to interrupt Tyrion’s answer, “Farewell, brother.” He nodded and looked at Brienne one last time before turning, striding towards the stable where his horse was waiting for him.

As if on cue, the dragon queen, her most faithful servant and her Queensguard appeared, making Sansa tense, bribes of what happened last night coming back at the forefront of her mind. Daenerys Targaryen looked tired, and she was glaring at everyone. But especially at her Hand. “Do you even carry dragonglass, or will you relay on the fighting skills of a _lady_ knight, too?” Sansa bristled at that barely-concealed disdainful comment, turning herself disdainful toward that queen of no land who dared disregard Tyrion and Brienne in the same sentence, while including every person who stayed back and weren’t riding dragons.

Tyrion let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I do, but alas, my fighting skills have not much improved since my last battle. I’d only be a burden on the battlefield, unexperimented as I am, especially with your dragons, Your Grace.”

“Yes, my queen. Your dragons will be the main solution of the conflict,” ser Jorah declared, the picture of confidence. “If we stick to Jon Snow’s plan, then most lives should be spared.”

She huffed, “What does Jon Snow knows about dragons?”

“About dragons, not many things. But he is a great strategic thinker, knows about battles and won quite a lot, from what I’ve heard.”

“Indeed,” Sansa confirmed, glad Tyrion was defending Jon against all the dismiss he faced. “He is the best-”

“I win my battles, too, when I follow _my_ strategy. My army will fight, my dragons will destroy the Night King and I will save the realm.”

“Your Grace, Lord Snow has fought the Night King before and-”

“So did I. I lost a child to that thing. I-”

“Jon!” Tyrion cried out quite desperately. “Here you are!”

“Don’t interrupt me,” she fumed, gritting her teeth while Sansa could do nothing else but watch as the queen’s temper flare. Perhaps she didn’t know much about battles, but she was sure it couldn’t be a good thing. 

Jon’s presence seemed to assuage the dragon queen, though not by much, mainly since he barely glanced at her. Instead, the first smile he made that day was for Sansa – albeit a small, sad one. She was suddenly glad for the wintery wind that became a suitable excuse for the red of her cheeks at the sight of him and the memory of last night.

“When you see Arya,” he said, shimmying, “could you… erm… tell her I’m sorry – about the things you know. I couldn’t find her and there’s no more… I mean, we have to go.”

“Yes, we do,” ser Davos chimed in, curt as always. “Farewell, lady Stark.”

She barely nodded at him, though, her attention focused on memorizing every little detail of Jon’s features once again, this time in the soft light of the dawn, with his hair tied and dressed in grey and brown furs, like a wildling. “I’ll tell her,” she whispered, not really making sense of what he just said.

Jon took a step forward, eyes still intent on her, and pressed his lips to her forehead. The words ‘I love you’ were mouthed – she recognized their shape, thanks to last night – against her skin before he took a step back, the instant already over. They fidgeted at the same time, both aware that they weren’t alone; no, that goodbye had to be done in a candle lighted room, hidden away from the main castle.

He cleared his throat, his hand coming to squeeze hers briefly, “Stay safe, my lady.”

“And you,” she said, nodding once as they all started walk away from her, “my lord.”

_I won’t break, I won’t break, I won’t break, I can’t._

She saw him cast one look back at her, over his shoulder, just before getting on his horse, and then he was gone. The last fighters were seen away by their little children, one by his very pregnant wife and Sansa remained at her spot until the last one passed through and the gates were closed, all the while willing herself not to break down crying.

This was not a luxury she possessed, to just stop standing and let out her own fears and despair in a free flow in the courtyard, in the battlements, in the corridors, nor in the Great Hall where most of the older children and pregnant women were. Most of them were already crying and praying, but Sansa couldn’t. Instead, Brienne and she settled to look after the children with Gilly, Missandei and Marleigh Batler. They were ordered to not leave the hall and not come close to the windows. The hardest to convince were Cadder, whose sick sister had stayed behind, and Sam, Samwell and Gilly’s son, who wanted to stay with his father in the Godswood, with Bran and the Maester. The seven others were more easily swayed. And caring for the children demanded a constant attention, something Sansa was more than happy to give.

 

An hour passed, then two.  
Sometimes, she swore she could hear faint cries, brought by the wind, but convinced herself she must imagine it.  
Had the battle started? Were they winning? Had they already lost?  
She could hear Marleigh Batler and Jeyne speculate over those questions, claiming they would have felt the death of the father of their unborn child had he already fell.  
Would she feel Jon’s death?

She didn’t want to think about it, but at the same time she knew she needed to be prepared for all eventualities; what would people think if he doesn’t come back and they watch her crumble? Would she be able to restrain herself? Would they care if she didn’t?

“Don’t lose hope, my- Sansa,” Brienne came to sit next to her, a bit farther than where Missandei was sitting, surrounded by the children, recounting a story about the wonders of Essos. “His Grace has fought the army of the dead twice already, and always came back alive. He’s the most experienced fighter today, the best swordsman in the North. I’ve seen him fight, I trained with him – if there’s anyone who will survive, it’s him.”

“You’re right,” Sansa said, willing herself to believe it. We will not break. “I’m sure ser Jaime will survive, too.” She prayed for it, for him and Jon and Gendry and Podrick and Tormund and uncle Edmure and lord Royce and everyone else to survive.

“Thank you, Sansa. He’d be happy you’d think of him. I think you remind him of the princess Myrcella, he made a few allusions about it last night.”

“That’s kind of him.” She remembered a kind girl in King’s Landing, sweet, loving and loved. Someone with whom she ate with, when she was still betrothed to Joffrey, before she was sent to Dorne. She remembered how sweet Tommen had cried that day, reminding her of little Rickon’s tears when she and Arya and Jon and Father had left Winterfell. “She was a good person.”

“He loved her very much, that’s for sure. There’s something he told me, though, I’m not sure if you would agree to it…” Sansa glanced at her, her eyebrows raised interrogatively at Brienne’s fidgeting and her pink cheeks. “It’s… I promise we weren’t gossiping or anything it just… came into the conversation and… perhaps he forgot about it. But- he told me he’d… help you. On the matter concerning Jon- King Jon.”

“Help me?” She wasn’t sure she understood – how could he help her? First, since last night, everything turned out perfectly clear. And then, for him and Brienne, Jon was in love with the dragon queen and her half-brother.

“Yes,” Brienne whispered, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “He said he’d talk to him before the battle and ‘make him see reason’. He, uh, seemed quite confident in his abilities?” She smiled softly, “Anyway, I hope you know that I am happy you found someone to love and who has your best interests in mind, at least. I’m sure he will… love you, if that’s not already the case. Jaime thinks it is. And I… well, I would trust him.”

How could someone she had spent years despising for his close relation with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey, her childhood for acts redeem himself by his acts so swiftly? “I… would, too.” He literally had no obligation to do something like that, just as he had no obligation to come here with Riverlands’ soldiers and bring food. Food that should be there in three days’ time, if the living win.

Missandei had finished her story, so they both tried to lull the little ones into sleep, without much success, except for Cadder who had fallen exhausted after throwing a fit. But Tyrion was proving to be quite good at entertaining them, to everybody’s surprise. “Even myself,” he quipped.

 

Three hours.  
They undoubtedly were fighting, now. Yesterday evening, the dead were about one hundred miles away and they probably marched all night long, so they couldn’t be more than two hours away from Winterfell when everybody departed.

She stilled herself; before tomorrow, everything would be sorted out. Jon and the others won’t be able to fight indefinitely, without eating or sleeping and Winterfell… well Winterfell will only hold for as long as the half-dozen knights will stand against millions of undead things. They had planned crates of snow to slow them and fires to destroy them, which could give them a two-minute window to flee with pregnant women and small children. Brienne, Gilly, Missandei and Arya had a chance to save their lives if they could find a horse and run into the rivermen coming to Winterfell with the carts of food.

Almost as if on cue, Arya barged into the hall, ears, nose and cheeks red from the cold, but her eyes alert. Sansa immediately stood up, her anxiety mingling with her exasperation, the latter taking over when she forcefully took hold of her sister’s arm and dragged her in a corner, away from wandering ears.

“Where were you?” Sansa asked indignantly. That surprised her sister, who looked at her with wide eyes for a moment before her expression became guarded once more.

“I went to see Bran. Warging into the green dragon doesn’t really work for now, but he’s still trying. I helped the knights, too but they send me here. Apparently, everyone knows that the _king_ – who’s not a king by the way – asked me specifically to watch over you. So here I am, inside, when everyone else is fighting.”

“Jon didn’t see you, this morning, before he left.”

“I know.”

Sansa shook her head, astounded. “Why? He was leaving for battle, he wanted to talk with you.”

“I’ve nothing to say to him.”

“Are you- do you realize what you’re saying?” The only response she got was a blank face and a raised eyebrow. She wanted to scream. Or shake her. Or both. “What’s the problem? Why are so cold to him?”

“With you so warm, it counterbalances.”

“Please Arya, this isn’t about me. It’s about you and Jon. Your brother.”

“He’s not my brother, not anymore,” she barked. “I’ve got nothing to tell him, so I didn’t go to him. And you don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t know anything about anything, and certainly not about him.”

That stung but… “No, you don’t get to do that. I’m not going to leave you alone just because you don’t want to talk to me. You avoided talking to Jon since he came back about whatever it is you’re still upset about, you don’t get to do it with me.”

“Oh, I avoided him! Of course…” At last! At last some emotion, other than fury, flooded back in her voice. She was hurt, so it wasn’t that good. “It has nothing to do with the fact that he was always strolling with the mad queen, that he never came to see me, or talk to me,” she said between gritted teeth, her brows furrowing. Her face was slowly crumbling. Her eyes were brimming with tears. So were Sansa’s. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen him, since he came back? And I mean really see him – not while I was wearing another’s face, not while he was either with the mad queen or the imp.”  
Arya took a shaky breath and her voice cracked for this answer, “Four times. Four fucking times. You and Bran were there for two of them, one was with all the Northerners in the Great Hall and the last one was because you locked us in your solar.” She made a sound then, as if someone had just punched her into the gut, “So no, Sansa. I’ve got nothing to say to him.”

“I got things to say to you, then. This morning, when he couldn’t find you, he asked me to tell you he’s sorry. He is, Arya,” she added when her sister shook her head. “This situation, it hurt him as much as you. You both wanted to be with the other. You both were so impatient to be reunited. He was sad, not being able to speak to you as much as he wanted to. And you were sad, not being able to speak to him as much as you wanted to. You both were miserable.”

“I still am, you know,” she pointed out softly. “Miserable. You’re saying it like it’s passed, like everything’s over but it’s not.”

It was Sansa’s turn to frown. She swallowed with difficulty, not wanting to think the words, not wanting to say them aloud but… “He went to war. We-we don’t know if he’s going to…”

Arya looked at her as if she suddenly started spouting nonsense. She scoffed, a half-smile formed on her mouth, looking again like her little sister. “He’s going to. Obviously, Sansa. He’s _Jon_ ,” she said, as if it was the most evident reason in the world. She sounded so _sure_. She had sounded the same, once, when she had been certain Robb would rescue her from King’s Landing. Sansa wanted to believe her, wanted to share her confidence. “Sansa?” 

Except she couldn’t. Her mind kept reminding her that everything good in her life has always ended up being snatched away from her, by some all-powerful entity, “I pray you’re right,” no matter how much she prayed, how much she begged, how much she loved.

She pictured her bloody father’s sword cheered by the common folk of King’s Landing, Ramsay’s sneer, Jon’s scars, Grey Wind’s head sewed to her brother’s corpse, Joffrey’s angry glare, her mother’s screaming, Jon’s lifeless body raising again and turning against everything he fought for.  
She had never seen a wight, nor hear her mother’s screaming, nor witnessed a massacre, but she could picture it all so clearly – the image and the sound and the taste and-

She was breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, sorry for the cliffhanger – I’ll post next one as soon as I can (aka probably Sunday/Monday).
> 
> On another note, I had a request to turn this work into a serie and add one-shots of scenes from other characters’ POV. I’m already thinking of doing it and I’m wondering if it would interest other people? Like, which scenes (preferably ones not already written through Sansa’s POV) (even more preferably ones that had been mentioned/hinted at) would you like to read?  
> The request was Jon’s POV about the ‘search for Sansa’ in chap7. And I’d really like (aka I’m probably doing it, even if no one is interested) to post the Jaime/Jon talk that’s hinted in this chapter.


	12. As a fool throws empty bottles out at sea and hope someone’ll read through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t really say ‘Enjoy’ for this one, because it’s not exactly ‘yahoo! Sunshine and rainbows!’  
> (Warning: they are hints at gore toward the middle of the chapter - it last about one sentence, that's all)
> 
> But still – enjoy?

Her reason slowly came back to her, the real world becoming less and less blurred.

Her sister was right here, holding onto her shoulders and keeping her standing, her grey eyes shining with worried tears. “He’s going to come back,” she croaked. “He can’t die – he cannot. I never told him goodbye. You have to say goodbye to the people you’re never going to see again, before they leave. I said goodbye to mother, Robb, Rickon before I left – and so did you. I remember you hugged Rickon for hours before he could let you go.”

“We knew we wouldn’t see them for a long time.” She was coming back. She didn’t break, shatter into thousand pieces. She was still upright. “I remember trying to etch mother’s face into my mind as I closed Bran’s door. I think that’s why I can still remember her face better than father’s.”

“Same for me. Goodnight isn’t the same as goodbye.”

“At least you got to tell him goodnight. I spent years regretting the way I talked to him, the way I acted after Lady’s death, or after he wanted to send us back north.”

“It’s not your fault...”

“Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I behaved appallingly. I was such a stupid little-”

“You weren’t. You were naïve, and stubborn, and, admittedly, a bit too haughty, but you were never stupid. You were blinded by glamor and pretty words, that’s your only fault. And Father knew that.”

Cadder started making a fuss right that moment, some fit Tyrion couldn’t distract him from, so everyone tried to find a solution to soothe the boy. The conversation was over.

 

Four hours.  
And Sansa was hungry. She couldn’t stop it, even if it made her sick, to want food when people were fighting and, obviously, had a greater need for it than she had here, sitting and being warm and not on the battlefield.

The Great Hall was deadly silent since Gilly heard a faint war cry a minute ago. They could hear men in armor walking outside, seemingly unbothered, so it couldn’t have been them. Besides, the war cry was faint, so it couldn’t have been shouted from the courtyard. Sansa’s heart tightened with hope – dead things didn’t have war cries, right? She wanted to run to the battlements and see for herself the living coming back, but she knew they needed confirmation it was the living before getting out.

“Maybe I just imagined it,” she whispered hesitantly after some time.

Yet no one acknowledged that. They were all sat on chairs or on the ground, all focused on something personal. Sansa regretted trying to change her mind from imagining Jon’s fate by focusing on trivial matters – which had brought her hunger at the forefront of her mind and now she couldn’t go back to forget it. She could simply hope her stomach’s rumble would remain unnoticed by the rest of the room. Brienne sat at her right, examining her hands, probably worrying like everyone else and Arya… well Arya worried her in a way. She sat in a corner, eyes fixed over nothing and her arms hugging her legs, not having moved since their conversation. Sansa had tried to cheer her up but had been promptly rebuffed and thus she figured her little sister would come to them when she’ll want to. Everybody was trying to ignore the fact that Missandei and Marleigh were silently crying. Tyrion just stopped pacing. Gilly was stroking Sam’s hair. Even the rest of the children had detected the dark mood that had taken a hold of the hall and had stopped playing.

That wouldn’t do, she thought, standing up. “What were you playing at? Can I join you?” she asked, making Tyrion startle.

The children, however, regained their excitement immediately. Little Sosan beamed at her and started babbling, trying to make sentences that, at the tender age of two, weren’t comprehensible by anyone but her yet. Briden, who at seven was the oldest of the group, was the bravest and thus came the closest to her. “Can you play?” He asked in wonderment, as if the idea was completely foreign to him.

“Yes, I used to want to play all day long when I was little.” That earned her even wider eyes that brought an almost-true smile on her face.

“You could play yourself,” Martyn said. “We chose Sosan to be you, because my parents said that if they could have, they would have named her like you. But she’s very young and she doesn’t really know how to play.”

“My mama says that you’ve al-ways got to say my lady when you speak to lady Stark.” Karlon made a dramatic pause before pointing out “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, my lady Stark,” Martyn apologized sheepishly. She heard Tyrion chuckle under his breath at his face.

“It’s alright, ser,” she started playing along, still not knowing what they were playing. She had assumed some heroes from the stories, like Florian the Fool whom she remembered Robb favored. However, it didn’t seem to be the case, since she was asked to play herself.

“We’re fighting the Boltons,” Martyn explained.

“I’m Jon Snow, the King in the North!” Briden shouted, followed by the others, claiming they were “Tormund!” or “The Onion Knight!” or “Wun Wun the Giant!”. Cadder walked closer to Tyrion, “Can I be you?”

In the midst of all the elation, the loud sob Sansa heard coming from behind her denoted. She turned her head to see Arya crying, her teeth showing with each shaky inspiration, her eyes fixed on Briden who, still playing Jon, started swinging a wooden stick at the air.

“I only come at the end of the battle, so I’m going to wait over there,” Sansa said, crossing the hall toward her sister, still curled in her corner. This time, Arya didn’t wave her away. Instead, she threw her arms around her as soon as she joined her on the ground.

Her shoulders weren’t shaking but pressed against her, Sansa could hear the faint hitching of hiccups and sniffs. Seeing her sister in such a state, she only wanted to shield her from everything forever but also sit down and cry, so she settled for a mix of both: wrapping her arms around her while sobbing silently, a much-needed release of all her bottled-up fear.

“He can’t die,” Arya whispered in the cocoon created by their cloaks. “Not when I was such a horrible sister. Knowing Jon, he probably thinks I hate him or something!” She dissolved in another fit of sobs and Sansa hold her all the way through. “I don’t. I never hated him…”

“You’ll tell him. You’ll tell him, and everything will be better.”

“I never hated you, either,” she murmured in a still shaky voice. “That’s the last thing I told Father, that night. I love that you’re my sister. You’re the best sister one could ask.”

The laugh that passed through Sansa’s lips was perhaps half-disbelieving half-delighted. “I love that you’re my sister, too.” A tear fell. Only one, hidden in the secrecy of her sister’s cloak. Surely no one could blame her for…

A deafening shriek interrupted even her thoughts. If she could think back on her actions, it would surprise her that her first reaction wasn’t jumping in fright, or curl into herself, or scream, or even freeze. No, she abruptly lifted her head out of the cocoon just in time to see Briden and Sam – still with their sticks raised in the air – freeze before Brienne threw herself at her, blocking her vision.

As soon as she felt herself starting fall on the ground under her friend, her closing fingers brushing against Arya’s breeches, she heard it again. The inhuman shriek – only it was way, way closer than it had been a second prior – and followed by a great BLANG. The floor of the Great Hall vibrated and the wind started howling.

Then she heard the screams. Everywhere. In the hall, of course, but also outside – coming to her ears far better than they should have, actually, with the thick walls of the castle between them. As soon as Brienne stood up, her eyes flew open. A black mass of scales was standing in the Great Hall, and it took her some time to realize it must belong to a – living – dragon and that its presence was the cause of the gaping hole in one of the wall and the amount of stones that were scattered on the floor.

As the mass lifted – a paw, it must be a paw – oh gods, if it’s only one paw, then where is the other? And the body? – knocking off more bricks, sending one smashing on the wall just above Tyrion’s head, Sansa turned her body to the right, “Arya?” she shouted out, trying to be heard through the screams.

“I’m alright.” A quick look confirmed her that she wasn’t bleeding, just covered in dust.

“Sam!”

“Oh gods!”

“Where are the children?”

The answer to that last question was obvious to who was looking, smashed bits laying on the ground just where the paw was. The sight of it – and what it entailed, gods, what it entailed – had Sansa retching whatever was left of her insides.

Several things happened at the same time: Missandei passed out when she understood by herself the answer to her question; Tyrion and Brienne scrambled to the hole in the wall; Gilly started calling frantically for her son and Sansa rushed to where little Sosan was laying, having been sheltered between the wall and Tyrion.

The chimney at the end of the Great Hall was destroyed, a pile of stones laying where it once was – where the children had been playing just a second ago. Gilly and Cadder were urgently digging through it, the young woman sobbing her boy’s name. Sansa pressed a kiss on Sosan’s curls, murmuring “Stay here” before she stood up once more and started to help them. She had just happened on an abnormally twisted arm, when someone shouted “Get down!”

She let herself fell on the floor, like everyone else in the room except Gilly, set on finding her son even if it made risking her life. The screams and shrieks started again.

“Arya! Don’t come close to the hole!”

Her sister waved a hand dismissively at Brienne’s order and continued crawling. Sansa’s heartbeat muffled any other sound, but she clearly read the horror in Arya’s eyes, soon reflected by Gilly’s. She wanted to close hers. Close hers and never open them again.

That’s it, she thought. They lost. We lost. She remembered that part in Jon’s plan _‘If we lose, Daenerys will fly south.’_ What other reason could it be, for the dragon to come to Winterfell? The dead army is probably already entering the castle, and no knights will ever hold them back. She had a dagger made of dragonglass in the pouch tied to her belt, but she wasn’t delusional: why bother? Bran was probably already dead, Arya would follow soon after. She’d get to see Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon again. And Jon. She would scold her father for keeping such a huge secret from everyone, but her mother would surely regret everything, just like she did. They could be all together.

“Sam!” _Poor Gilly…_ “They’re burning!” _No, after everything, I ask for mercy._ “The mad queen is burning everyone!” _What?_ “Sansa! She’s burning Winterfell!”

Her eyes flew open at that, only to lay on her sister’s and the reflection of fire and gigantic flames in them.

“It’s impossible…” she heard a man’s voice – Tyrion’s – whisper.

She stumbled to the wall, where Arya was still crouched, each one of her heartbeat accompanied by a ‘It’s impossible’ from Tyrion. The scene she watched, however was real, and more than bloodcurdling enough: two riders and three dragons were flying above the camp and blowing fire at one another… mostly.

Tents were burning from heat and ice equally, two knights in the courtyard were screaming, running to one cart of snow, burning with orange fire – from one of the living ones. Sometimes, one of the living dragon would go on the ground, smashing and destroying everything in its way, only to take off again.

The wight dragon was alike the two others, the only difference was the color of the flames he breathed. From the distance, the two riders were undecipherable: spots wearing light colors, sitting immobile, focused on their tasks, burning everything and everyone as a second thought. Sansa watched, transfixed until one of them – the one riding the wight, the Night King – stood and brandished something. As far as she was, it looked like a very long spear. But it had an immediate effect on the two other dragons; one of them had been getting closer to the dead one and promptly turned away, the second had been flying close to the ground and… also turned away.

They flew.  
And flew.  
And they didn’t stop. They didn’t turn back and started fighting and firing.  
Even the wight dragon flew away, in the opposite direction.  
And Sansa stood there, in the destroyed Great Hall, her mind blank but for one sentence: they’re coming.

“It’s impossible…”

“She’s leaving! Your mad queen is- she’s- you-”

And she wasn’t able to do anything: her survival instincts kicking in when she had been ready to meet her fate a few moments prior.

 _They’re coming, they’re coming._ She was convinced of it. Her hand shot out for her sister’s, her feet taking her where Brienne was standing near Gilly, dragging Arya with her.

They were all grouped in front of the pile of bricks, Missandei’s unconscious body as a last bastion between them and whatever was coming. Arya squeezed her hand one last time before letting go, forming with Brienne the front line. Sansa and Tyrion were just behind them, Sosan and Cadder sheltered between them, Gilly on the pile her frantic screaming having turned to whispered pleas. They probably made a poor picture, what even more with Sansa who started to shake and couldn’t seem to stop. She couldn’t even hold her dagger properly.

You could only hear heavy breathing – even the remaining knights outside were silent. As for the rest of the people who had remained here, like Bran or Varys or Cadder’s sister, perhaps they had tried to flee. Perhaps they were already dead.

The dead would either come through the wall or through the still-standing door. Sansa found herself thinking the door was the likeliest option, since they would have to climb the wall for the former when there is a stair for the latter. Am I really deliberating on which door they are going to come in?

Hurried footsteps were heard from the corridor and, suddenly, the door barged open. Sansa’s scream died in her throat when she saw the newcomer. He was bloodied and haggard, but the red hair and tall stature was unmistakable.

“Lord Tully?” Brienne asked, cautious.

A flare of hope lighted up inside her. “What happened? Did we win?” But no, the Night King was still on his dragon.

He shook his head slowly, then spurned into action, blabbering “There’s no time for that now. Sansa, Arya, come with me: we leave.”

“What?”

“Where’s Jon? Is he alright?”

“I don’t know. Most of the plan worked until the mad queen tried to end the war all by herself and brought all the dragons here. Now, our dragons are gone, the army is nearly decimated, they’re coming back to end it at Winterfell. Jon Snow asked me to get you somewhere safe. As for the rest of you,” he said, turning to the others, “I only precede them by a few minutes. You can try to leave now or end up burning here.”

He strode to them, one hand grabbing Arya’s arm, the other hers and started to drag them to the door.

“Wait!” Arya shouted. She stopped him in his track and, at the same time, forced Sansa back into reality. “We’re not leaving.”

Their uncle sighed exasperatedly. “We are. It’s an order-”

“From Jon? And you’re going to obey him? Jon _Snow_?”

“I don’t like it! But I agree that you two must get away to safety. Now hurry, we don’t have much time.”

“Take my sister with you,” Arya said, turning back to Sansa. “You should go somewhere far away, to Essos perhaps. Go see what’s east of Essos; go see what you want-”

“Arya. Wait-” No. No, no, no, no… Please, not Arya, not her little sister. Not when they just found each other again, after years of being apart.

“I need to, Sans,” she blinked away tears. “Go fight. With Jon. Y-you understand?”

Sansa nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly. She hoped that conveyed the message: _I do. I hate it, but I understand. I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t often say it. I should have._ Arya’s eyes told her she got it and she smiled with gratitude.

“Lady Arya, Jon Snow has expressly demanded-”

“Take a kid with you, instead,” she said, yanking her arms free of their uncle’s grasp. He looked surprised she succeeded freeing herself and sighed once more as she ran off the fight. Sansa sobbed, Brienne followed Arya, Edmure Tully grimaced, she reached out to Sosan who was currently held by Tyrion, Cadder ran outside – to his sister, surely, quickly followed by Tyrion.

“She is going to slow us down, Sansa.” Her uncle’s expression was annoyed.

“I am going to slow us down, uncle.”

She casted a last look at Missandei’s lying form and Gilly, who was seated next to the pile of bricks and weeping softly. She suppressed another sob for Sam then focused on the toddler in her arms and followed her uncle. They rushed from the Great Hall to the courtyard, passing by half-destroyed rooms that made her heart tighten, frozen bodies that made her press Sosan’s head on her chest to spare her the sight.

The courtyard was in a similar state as the inside – she found that the west side was more exempted than the other, which gave her a little hope that Bran was able to flee. She knew it was highly improbable: the plan was to warg into a dragon, and he probably was stubbornly trying, even when they had all fly away. Perhaps he was even trying to warg into the dead one.

But she had no time to think about that, not if she wanted to keep on walking. She needed to stay concentrated on where she put her feet, the battlements having suffered under the onslaught of both ice and fire. She couldn’t fall, especially not with the precious bundle she held close to her, mostly inside her cloak.

“Oh, by the Mother!” She heard her uncle cursed and she raised her head so fast it made her dizzy.

It turned all her precaution for naught when she stepped on an icy step and felt herself slip. She braced herself for the impact, taking care of slightly turning her body so that her side and her left leg would take the worst of the fall and Sosan remain unharmed. The pain seared in her ankle first. However, the rest of her body was cushioned by something furry.

She ooff’d as the impact was made and opened her eyes to see grey fur. Her mind stopped for a few second, “Lady?”. But no, Lady had spots of white on her back, too. And the grey had been lighter than this one. And she was dead, had been for years. She had been way smaller and – oh gods – she wasn’t alone.

“Sansa! They’re outside the gates!”

“Nymeria? To me!”

Sansa whirled her head where the voice came from. She saw Arya look at her intensely, take a deep breath and start running toward the gates, followed by the few knights that were still alive, Brienne and Nymeria and… her pack?

Her uncle helped her and started to drag her in the opposite direction, to the south gate of Winterfell. Pain was pulsing from her ankle to the rest of her body, but she forced herself to focus on something else. She had it pretty good.

She had just the time to glimpse the opening of the gates, her eyes fixed on her sister.

“Wait, uncle Edmure,” she cried out, wrenching herself from his grip. Sosan started fussing at their antics. “It’s them! The living! They’re here!” Jon’s here! And perhaps others too, just outside the gates! If she could just see him, one last time, just for a second… just a glimpse.

“We can’t! They’re coming, Sansa, for all of us,” he cried out, pointing at the dead dragon they could spot behind the walls. “We lost. The dragons are gone. If we stay, we-”

The rest of his sentence was drowned by an inhuman shriek from the sky. Close. Before she could do anything, a hulking shadow passed above them, flying north. It was the green one, the one that wasn’t ridden by the dragon queen. It was as close to the ground as the one she saw flying that first day, when Jon returned – truth, the only one she ever saw.

Sosan was crying loudly now and Sansa’s hushing did nothing to soothe her. They stood stunned as they watched the green dragon disappear behind the walls, as they witnessed cries of protestation before it rose again in the sky, a rider on its back.

“How is it possible?” Edmure Tully whispered, amazed and horrified at the same time, his hand went to his sword even though there wasn’t any soul around them.

She didn’t answer him – though she knew how to. Her feet carried her closer to the gate, she wasn’t even aware of the searing pain from her ankle, nor of the fact she was holding Sosan close perhaps too forcefully. She heard battle cries outside the gates, she saw two dragons – one alive, rode by the most important person in her world; the other not, rode by death itself.

What did Arya say to her, again?  
_There is only one thing we say to death: not today._

Please, let it not be today, she couldn’t help but hope. One dragon was back – was it thanks to Bran? Jon’s blood? The dragon queen’s conscience?  
It didn’t matter.

Except it did, when it became obvious that the dragon wasn’t flying and behaving as fluently as it did when it was Daenerys Targaryen on top of it. It wasn’t making loops or anything that put Jon in a greater danger than _being on a bleeding dragon_ in the first place, but it flew sometimes high, sometimes not and more often than not was switching between these in rapid successions. In truth, she didn’t see how he could hold onto it. But he did.

Against all odds, when the two dragons faced each other, his looked mostly stable.

The following moves happened so quickly she had trouble taking account of each ones. Nonetheless, they burned themselves in her memory, replacing in horror the ones associated with Joffrey’s or Ramsay’s antics.

She saw the Night King stand up and throw his spear up, where Jon was, the dragon aiming to fire directly at the dead one. She heard the shouts and the shriek before she acknowledged that it left the Night King’s hands to lodge itself in the dragon.

She saw a shadow jump – Jon.  
She saw another one fall – the dragon.

The dead beast turned on itself when it felt Jon holding onto its side where a bone was protruding. By some miracle or just sheer will – or both, he held on.

He even managed to hoist himself on the wight’s back.

“Cart!” she screamed when she saw how unstable his footing was. It made no sense, but somehow Edmure Tully understood and raced to the closest cart of snow to open it.

The dead dragon shrieked and shoot toward the battlement’s wall. She saw a glint as Jon’s sword swung around as he lost his balance.

She saw what he was standing on shatter into nothing.

She scrambled to him before his body smashed in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow is his protection, isn’t it? Always has been
> 
> I can now officially announce that the battle part of the story is over! I hope you liked it, and that seeing it from Sansa’s POV wasn’t too boring.  
> The next chapters will have more action – and they won’t be battle ones. Paradox…


	13. Of lands and men, they are the guardians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEED THE TAGS: Character **s** death
> 
> I have a ‘big’ rant in the end notes, so I won’t bother you in these. But feel welcome to read the little § in the end notes. Don't hesitate to tell me what you think!  
> Enjoy the chapter!

Only, Sosan’s wail reminded her that she couldn’t run with a toddler in her arms on the snowy and icy ground. Muttering a quick apology to the little girl for scaring her once more, she settled her on the ground. “Stay here, I’m coming back, don’t run to anyone.” She sent a glance to the fighters who were starting to walk back to the safety of the castle and another to where her uncle and another man were both lifting Jon’s body from the snow. She couldn’t feel guilt at the idea of leaving a two-year-old girl alone and frightened in the middle of the courtyard – she couldn’t… not when Jon probably needed her, and she needed him just as much.

Her mind was set – Jon it was. He was her priority. She shouldn’t reflect on her actions. She couldn’t bear to think of what if… No. Anyway, she reasoned, he’d want her to do what she needed, he’d want her to be near him, he…

He wouldn’t want her to prioritize him over anyone else.

Her people needed her: there were families to reunite, people to guide, sick to tend, scared to soothe…

She needed to make sure he was alive, Arya too, Bran too, and then she’ll-

“The King is breathing!”

She let out the breath she wasn’t holding – of course he was! She had never doubted it, neither did Arya. Neither did anyone. She willed herself to trust her uncle’s word – he’s alive, he’s breathing – and she acknowledged as she took Sosan back in her arms that the lucid part of her was glad no one will see her throwing herself at him and wail her relief when she would’ve seen him breathing.

She felt Sosan cling to her as she started crying softly, the poor child was probably overwhelmed by all that was happening. She briefly remembered her mother telling her young children were able to feel when one was upset or scared. Crying and hugging were their way of telling you they cared about you. _Don’t worry, my dear Sansa,_ her mother had told her once, smiling softly, soothing her apprehensions, _the simple sight of your children will be more than enough to fill you with love and joy. And children love their mother. They always do._

Her mother would have scolded her for thinking about leaving the girl on her own, for putting her needs above those of a scared child. She might not be Sosan’s mother, but right now she was the closest thing to it, until she found Analys Wern that is.

The number of people passing through the gates of Winterfell was heart-wrenchingly low, but there was still hope that some would be scattered around and needed more time to walk back to the castle. The people who were still able to stand upright, whether limping or striding purposefully, were carrying those who weren’t able, but were still lucky enough to be alive. She could recognize a considerable number of faces – mostly Westerosi ones, though a few Unsullied and Dothrakis walked among the injured. She desperately and selfishly searched for very well known ones, but her panic was probably the reason she didn’t see any.

She forced her lips to stretch in an encouraging smile while she tucked Sosan’s head under her chin, to spare her the blood and the carnage.

Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest; each second passing without seeing someone loved made her panic even more. Anyone, please, any well-known face. Her uncle and the other man were bringing Jon to the castle – probably to lay him down somewhere warm – and she hesitated at following them: the injured were starting to go indoors and they’ll need all the help they could find. But at the same time, she felt she needed to be here, in the courtyard.

“Sosan,” she whispered in the brown curls, “tell me when you see your mo-”

“Sansa!”

She whirled around and let out a watery laugh. Her mouth formed the name “Brienne!” as she hurried at her friend’s side. Her entire left side was back at hurting her, so she limped a bit, but the less she thought about it, the less it hurt. Brienne appeared unharmed, alone, worried and disheveled but unharmed. “Are you alright? Did you see anyone?”

“I am.” Her friend frowned slightly, “but you are hurt, my lady.”

“Oh, I just slipped in the stairs, it’s nothing.”

“Still – let me…” she said, holding out her arms to Sosan. Sansa’s ankle was relieved of the added weight and she couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh that wasn’t lost to her friend’s ears. However, before she could apologize and remind Brienne that she could take back the little girl as soon as she desired, a hand shot out to her right arm, making her jump.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” came the hurried voice of ser Jorah Mormont. Behind him was Lord Samw- no, Jon said she could call him Sam. She barely had time to make that remark in her mind that the deafening shriek came back at the forefront of her mind, followed by Gilly’s cries and tears. She couldn’t hear anything of what ser Jorah was saying, her gaze was fixed on Sam, and his was fixed on hers.

They started speaking at the same time.

“How is my brother?” _Bran_

“Where are they?” _Gilly and little Sam_

His face turned sorrowful. Her vision blurry. _Do you understand?_

A sob escaped her. Him, a single tear. _I do._

“Your son,” she could hear Brienne say while ser Jorah’s arms shot out and kept her standing as more and more dry sobs racked her. Bran. “There was a dragon in the Great Hall.” Bran, oh no, not Bran! Bran, her always-so-joyful little brother. When? How? “Gilly was still there, the last time I saw her.” Why? “She probably still is.” Hadn’t he suffered enough? “I’m sorry.” Did he suffer?

“Did he suffer?” Her voice was so hoarse, she felt like every word she spoke didn’t come from her head but from her guts. “What happened?”

Ser Jorah was still holding her upright as Sam started to talk. A part of her could see he wanted to go away from here – to his beloved and their son, in all likelihood. She felt bad for keeping him from rushing to their side, but she needed to know.

“He didn’t. At least, I don’t think so. The dragons were g-gone, and what was left of the army was being decimated by the wights. He tried to warg into one as he was flying away – it-it t-took some time, but he succeeded. With Rhaegal – the green dragon. He flew it back here, but he could only stay warged into it for a few seconds at a time. H-he didn’t say anything when he was there, but I could see it was important for him to make that dragon do what he wanted it to do. Then, one time, he just… his eyes just didn’t… the Maester was with us and, before leaving for the castle, he conf-”

The rest of his sentence was drowned by a blaring “Somebody! Help!” coming for just behind the gates, making them all startle. Her mind was still foggy, and she was trying with all her might to change that. The injured hadn’t ceased walking beside them, but aside from sobbing and the occasional hushed conversation, everyone walked silently. She was uninjured, she was still standing, she wasn’t breaking – not now, not ever, not anymore – she had to…

_Little Sam, Bran…_

The man who had cried for help passed through the gates. He was covered in blood – on his clothes, his face, his matted blond hair and he was hurt, limping badly. He carried his sword under his arm because his right hand was… missing and his left arm was pulling a small bloody figure who also looked badly hurt.

Her heart sped when her mind relinked with reality, supplying to her the man was ser Jaime and the figure dragged behind him, by him, the brown-haired person who was clutching a thin sword to them, Sansa thought idly as she tried to find where their injuries were located, as if it were the… the only thing keeping her alive. 

_Please, no…_

“Arya?”

She didn’t want any acknowledgement. She wanted the figure to keep on limping, clutching ser Jaime’s arm and that sword – it wasn’t Needle, it wasn’t, Sansa was only too far to see properly – and her little sister would appear behind them, not a speck of blood on her, looking as unharmed as ever. She’d barely nod to Sansa before rushing to go see Jon.

But nothing like that happened. The victory of the living remained an eternal defeat for her family, it appeared. Time seemed to slow when the figure raised her head and stumbled on her own feet as their eyes locked. Somebody punched her on the way, because Sansa had barely taken a step to her sister that she was already out of breath. She might be crying too, but she didn’t try to suppress it anymore. Let everyone think her weak, she didn’t care.

Arya let her sword fall on the ground as Sansa neared them, Brienne on her heels, extending the now unarmed hand to her, her grey eyes wide open with fright and pain, shattering her heart into thousand pieces. She took the offered hand after taking Needle with her – Arya wouldn’t want her precious sword lost, the _only thing that kept her going on all those years_ as she had admitted once – and started half-carrying her to someplace warm. Brienne was doing the same with ser Jaime, who was still holding onto Arya.  
She was aware she was babbling something – things Arya probably thought silly, but it did have the effect of calming the both of them.

“Hold on… Hold on…” Arya and ser Jaime were alternatively – or sometimes together – grunting between their teeth.

“To the gates,” Arya would sometimes whisper, her gaze lost.

“We’ve passed the gates,” ser Jaime would remind her, always.

They met her uncle as they crossed the threshold to the indoors of the west side and without an ask, he took Arya in his arms and walked in the direction of one of the sewing rooms. “I’m sorry, I should have come back sooner. I was helping direct people in rooms that are mostly still covered.” He took a breath, one last turn then they arrived in a half-occupied room.

Tables had been requisitioned to serve as makeshifts beds where the badly injured could lie down and wait for someone to take care of them. Sansa’s heart began to tighten as the sheer lack of people who were able to make proper stiches was making itself obvious in front of her eyes. While she had been outside, hearing about Bran and helping Arya and… not being there.

But there was no use in dwelling on it now, she thought, as Arya’s breath hitched in their uncle’s arms and she croaked, “There. Down next to my brother.” Jon was laying on a table, closest to the hearth where a great fire was cracking and warming the place. His furs had been removed and he was only in his shirt and trousers. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. The man who helped bringing him here with her uncle stood at the end of his table, raising his head when he heard them approaching and paling when he saw the injured.

Edmure Tully laid Arya on the closest available table to Jon while Sansa found some thread and needle for her sister. As she did that, she hailed an unharmed squire and instructed him to go to the kitchens and take all the bread and distribute it to everyone in need.

“Yes, I know we can’t allow ourselves to. I am asking you to do it anyway.” She clarified, when the boy pointed out – accurately – that their stock of food was awfully low.

She was calmed, her hands didn’t shake anymore, so she figured that she would stitch her little sister up, aside from Arya not wanting her to do it for whatever reason.

She winced when she saw the extend of the gash on Arya’s belly. It was quite long and looked large – way larger than she would have preferred. Arya wouldn’t be able to move for a few weeks at last – and that was if it didn’t open again, that if, if she succeeded to stitch it once, then perhaps more. She had never done it for such a…

“What do you need me to do, lady Stark?” A deep voice said at her left. She turned to face the man – Gendry, she suddenly realized. It was Gendry who ran to Jon and now he was-

“Try to make sure she doesn’t move,” she said. She wanted to hug him, to thank him for being here and talking to her in that calm voice that calmed her in turn. Later.

“I won’t, I’ve seen worse,” Arya whispered. Sansa recalled what she told her about Braavos, the Waif and her knife. She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. She wanted to do both.

“I know.”

She started her task, her hands knowing what to do without her mind having to intervene. She had always been gifted with every form of needlework – embroidery and stitching are only so different.

Gendry was talking about the day ser Davos found him in King’s Landing and introduced him to Jon, about some wildlings’ – and particularly Tormund’s – shenanigans, about his hopes for the future. Arya was listening intently, and he made no remark of the tears that were rolling down her bloodied cheeks. Sansa liked him.

He told them Jon has been ordered to rest for three days and was currently sleeping normally. The Maester had said nothing was broken, only a twisted wrist and many bruises from the fall. The cuts had been stitched before their arrival and there hadn’t been many.

“It’s over,” she announced at last, letting out some of the tension in her shoulders. She turned around to call for the Maester, “I think the bandage will need to be changed every day. You’ll probably be bedridden for a time.” She wanted to stay, but duty had taken hold of her and she had to help as much as she could. She told Arya as much, with an apology on her lips. “Send someone if anything turns wrong,” she asked Gendry.

“Of course, lady Stark,” was the fervent answer.

“Sansa,” she corrected, nodding once before walking away, sending one last look at her smiling sister. _We’ll talk as soon as possible_ was the message sent from both sides.

Three other persons were in that room – Jon, the smith’s son and one of lord Manderly’s man. All had been taken care of, so she wasn’t needed for more than an encouraging smile for the only one awake.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she started running to the next room. This one was fully occupied, with injured people laying on tables and on the ground. She made stitches for a spearwife, there, whose name was Hrehild and who looked to be around her age. She spoke about the boy who she thought planned to steal her, how she was glad he survived too. Sansa nearly spilled the bucket of water she was carrying when, in the end, the woman looked at her straight in the eyes and thanked her – _her_ , Sansa, who did nothing but stay in the Great Hall during the battle – and praised her ‘fierceness’ and ‘generosity’ and ‘cleverness’ and ‘strength’.

“I… Thank you, Hrehild. But I’m… not any of these,” she said softly, waving her hand in her general direction while internally waving in the woman’s direction. “Not really.”

She grinned, “Go say that to the others; they’ll say how much you’re wrong. Men, mostly.”

Sansa smiled back, not knowing what to say. She excused herself, saying that since no one in this room seemed to be in need of her help, she’d leave her to rest. Around a corner, she ran into a misty-eyed Brienne. Immediately, her hands shot out and Brienne turned on her heels and started following her.

Sansa dreaded to know what happened, to who. “The able-bodied have started reuniting the corpses of the fallen.” She nodded once in acknowledgement but kept on walking. She couldn’t stop, whoever it was – ser Jaime, Podrick, Tormund, Tyrion, Cadder. It had to be someone Brienne knew. “They’ll burn them at nightfall. They’ve… they’ve found Pod’s body…” Sansa blinked slowly twice, the second time a tear fell from her eyes. Her throat was closing – _little Sam, Bran, Pod…_

But she didn’t have time to dwell on her grief. She had to keep going.

“Have they found Bran’s?”

“Yes, my lady. Lord Hornwood suggested burying him in the crypts, with the Kings of Winter.”

“I’ll have to speak about it with Jon and Arya… But I think that’s where we’ll bury him, next to Father and Rickon.”

“Alright. If you have no need of me, my lady, I’d like to go see Jaime.”

“Of course,” Sansa promptly agreed. “Brienne, before you go… where is Sosan?”

“I left her with ser Jorah when I, uh, we saw lady Arya and Jaime and… I mean he offered to look after her and…”

“It’s alright! I was just wondering, thank you Brienne. Give ser Jaime my best when you see him. Do you know in which room he was placed?”

“In the Great Hall. Thank you, Sansa. And I believe ser Jorah is with his cousin, near the kitchens.”

As she had no precise idea where she wanted to go, and the kitchens weren’t too far, Sansa walked to this room, taking great care as to no one saw her limping. Her ankle was still hurting her, more so when she had nothing or no one to distract her mind from the throbbing pain.

That changed as soon as she stepped inside this room. A foul smell assaulted her nose, brought tears in her eyes and made her cough.

“My apologies, lady Stark. The lad died, and he was near the fire so…” a burly northerner explained.

Ser Jorah was indeed in the room, near an open window, looking very concerned. She understood why as she came closer: lady Lyanna Mormont had several cuts and looked in pain.

“What can I do to help, ser?” Sansa asked softly.

“She has a wound fever. A maid left to fetch more snow to try and bring it down. The Maester said that if the fever doesn’t break in the next hours, she won’t make it. There’s nothing to be done.”

“She’ll make it. She survived the war, she’s a strong lady. Have her wounds be stitched yet?”

“Yes. There were many of them. She fought bravely.”

“I’m sure she did. And she will continue to do so, should it be her wish.”

“She lost a great deal of blood, she’s weak. The Maester said not to get my hopes up. But he also said that she’s young, and the young tend to recover more than the old.”

“Her fever will break, and she’ll be on her feet attending meetings soon,” she said, trying to sound sure. Trying to cover the weak breathing of the lady of Bear Island. She indeed looked worryingly pale. “I apologize for asking this now… Brienne said you offered to watch over…”

“The little girl? Sosan?” He continued after her nod. “She’s over there, with her father. Her mother died in the battle. He asked about a boy, too. Martyn? I think.”

She murmured her thanks while schooling herself for the horrendous new she’ll deliver this man, who already lost his wife to dragons. Who doesn’t know yet he lost his son too.

Sosan’s father looked a bit like her, though it was difficult to see as his hair was completely covered in bandages. The little girl beamed as she saw her approach, turning the attention of her father from the child in his arms to her.

His eyes were sad.

“My lord, ser Jorah informed me you asked after your son Martyn. He was in the Great Hall with me and-”

He held a hand, “There’s no need, lady Stark. My son was five, I’ve been back for three hours and he hasn’t made his way back to me. When I went to the Great Hall, there was no one – only some of that Targaryen coward’s followers. So maybe I’m too rude, but I just want to spend some time with my daughter and go back to my home as soon as I can.”

_Little Sam, Martyn, Bran, Pod, Sosan’s mother…_

She saw ser Davos alive. In another room, lord Royce was sleeping after they had to cut his left feet to prevent an infection from spreading. Tyrion was there, holding a crying Cadder whose right hand was burned and didn’t look like a hand anymore. She heard of lord Varys’ death, by orange fire.

She saw freefolk, Unsullied, a few Dothrakis – those who hadn’t been burned by their queen and the Night King while they were still abed with fever in their tents. She helped with the stitches of countless of injured – men, women, boys and girls, from everywhere and anywhere – who had for sole common point to have survived to “the Great War”.

She heard Tormund was helping taking the corpses back for the funeral ceremony that’ll take place on the evening.

Her feet led her to the Great Hall where ser Jaime was laying on the ground with – and that was unexpected – her uncle Edmure seated next to him, but without Brienne, Missandei, Sam or Gilly in sight. The amount of bricks from the hearth was slowly being used to fill some of the holes in the walls, firstly the one shielding them from the outside.

As soon as she stepped in, an elderly woman threw herself in her arms, already sobbing, babbling something unintelligible against the furs of her cloak. Sansa returned the comforting embrace and made them sit down on the ground. She could see ser Jaime in deep conversation with her uncle, but they appeared well – or, well, as good as they could be after fighting for their lives.

Having someone openly grieving for her dead loved one brought the tears and sobs she was fighting against for what seemed an eternity. She apologized over and over to that poor woman, well aware there wasn’t much else she could do. People passing by them wore understanding looks. Some even clasped her hand, seeking comfort and giving some to her in return. After a few minutes, the woman’s cries had abated enough for her to speak. However, instead of lamentations or reproaches, the first thing she said was: “May the gods bless you, lady Stark, and your brother. Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving my boy.”

As it turned out, the woman had lost her son in the battle of the Bastards, where he fought for the Boltons. Since that day, she had lived alone with her grandson – a boy of four-and-ten who was laying on the ground, resting. He had been proud of the chance to train as a soldier for the King of the North, even after his father, when he was just a farmer’s son. She said he came here six hours ago, wounded. He was very weak, even after his wounds stitched, when her “lady sworn-shield” came here, carrying a basket of bread and saying she had asked that food be given to the injured.

“It saved him, my lady. Look at him now, he has color in his cheeks, he breathes normally. The Maester Sam said he will live.” The old woman’s eyes were shining with joy and, even if she had never met that woman nor her grandson, Sansa was happy too. Happy and relieved. That smile she wore was surely the first of her day. “And your brother, my lady. When my Hectar was surrounded by those dead things, and when he told me he was sure he was going to die and be turned into one of them. He told me the King himself came to fight with him and pushed them back from my boy. His Grace probably doesn’t remember, and I’ve heard he was resting too, but when he woke, please tell him that a boy is alive thanks to him… That we’re all alive thanks to him, and that we’re all very sorry for lord Bran, and very grateful having the lady Arya, and him as our King – I mean warden – and you as our lady.”

“I will.”

They stood up, the woman apologizing for keeping her from doing whatever she wanted to do with nothing. Sansa gently disagreed with her – she didn’t feel as if she had needed it but hearing this did her good. Seeing people around her agree, silently or not, with what the woman had just said breathed a strength anew in her.

“See, Tully? Brave and strong and kingly,” she heard ser Jaime state. “And good and honorable enough to save the life of an unknown farmer’s boy. I mean, he saved the world today. He won back Winterfell when lady Sansa – your niece – came to him and asked him to. A real hero.”

“I am not denying that Jon… Snow is a good man,” was her uncle curt answer. “I am not denying he will make a… very good match for the girl he’ll choose to marry. And for her family.” Sansa winced internally. Ser Jaime, what are you hoping for? Talking to my uncle about this? “I understand all that. I don’t see why you would be interested.”

“Are you?”

Lord Tully huffed, “I don’t have any daughters. I don’t even have any new of the son I am supposed to have had with my wife.” Sansa pretended to be busy arranging the pots of ointments while being attentive to what was exchanged between the two men. Just for a minute, she promised herself. Ser Jaime was well aware of her presence, but her uncle seemed to have forgotten it.

“But if you had a daughter, in age of marrying… You’d consider marrying her to him. Wouldn’t you?”

“I… don’t know. I’d offer, I suppose. But I heard he rejected every proposal, so…”

“Maybe he’s just waiting for the right man to suggest a proposal of the right woman.”

“Perhaps. But anyway, I have the matter of my niece’s marriage to think of. Before King Jon’s.”

“Yes. Lady Sansa and Lord Jon. The future looks full of wedding.”

“There’s nothing like a wedding after a war.”

“Indeed, wars often are ended by marriage. A wonderful way to celebrate being alive! And reward heroic actions.”

“Or to make peace…”

“Or strengthen current positions!” Ser Jaime had to pause to yawn. But he spoke before Edmure Tully could leave him to rest, “I think lord Jon will have to marry a Northern woman to strengthen his.”

That made her uncle laugh, “I don’t think the Northern lords will accept anything else than a pure Northern wedding for their king!” He paused, chuckling softly, shacking his head. “You know, you’re the only one I talk to who call him ‘lord Jon’. All the others still call him ‘King’ or ‘His Grace’… or ‘Jon Snow’ in front of the Targaryen girl.”

“He’s the warden of the North. It goes with a lord title. Besides, ‘Her Grace Queen of the Seven Kingdoms blah blah blah Daenerys Targaryen, His Grace Jon Snow King in the North, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell’ is quite a mouthful. ‘Lord Jon, Lady Sansa’ rolls better off the tongue.”

Sansa couldn’t help herself from mouthing it, a small smile on her lips at the sound of their names associated like that; it was as if they were married.

She didn’t have to let the little flame it had ignited in her chest grow when the door barged forcefully, and a tear-streaked Gilly came in, blowing every flame out. She scrambled to a corner near the remnants of the hearth, where an abandoned blanket was laid, forgotten.

“Ah! Lady Sansa!” the grieving mother was smiling when she saw her. “Jon woke up ‘bout an hour ago,” she talked so quickly Sansa had trouble understanding everything. She looked excited. “And Sam told me to tell you that your sister’s wound seems to heal normally. She has not suffered any fever, and she’s conscious. She told me to tell you she talked to Jon about… uh… ‘what-you-know’. I don’t know what she means by that, but I saw them hugging and crying a bit – and that was before… before they knew about Bran. Oh, my lady, I am so sorry… Sam told us it’s thanks to him one of the dragon came back, that he saved us all.”

Sansa managed to smile despite it all. “I am sorry your son had to-”

Gilly’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard? Sam came quickly to the Great Hall and he was able to pull him out of the bricks. Him and Briden. He said they breathed a bit of dust, and my Sam has his arm and his calve b-broken b-b-but he’s alive! He’s alive, my lady!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t help but being sorry for every death – which is something that never happened with one of my own story (as I tend to avoid killing characters I don’t want to see dead) (and I don’t want to see anyone whom I killed in this story to die). But well… sometimes you just have to respect the canon universe – and in GOT/ASOIAF universe, people die.
> 
> I feel like the number of dead people is not enough / not realistic, though. I couldn’t bring myself to kill more. But hey, I’m sure season 8 will more than enough make up for this! Yay…
> 
> About this, I want everyone to know that, regarding the extreme abundance of ‘Podrick dies in the Great War’ in fics – and I don’t blame anyone (see up there for proof): it seems almost expected (I mean… he’s a secondary character but he’s good and everybody likes him (which is the truth, by the way, and it’s rare enough to be mentioned, especially for a GOT’s character – I feel he’s the only one who, wherever you are, no one will ever say ‘I don’t like Podrick Payne’) and we’ve only seen him lose, in every fight he had (but well – it’s always against Brienne of Tarth, and even the Hound lost to Brienne of Tarth) (and that’s forgetting he saved Tyrion’s life in the battle of Blackwater) (yes, I have a lot of feelings about that). 
> 
> So yeah, I’m expecting him to die. Everyone is expecting him to die. Everyone. Expects. Him. To. Die. In Game of Thrones.
> 
> I hope D&D and GRRM are aware of that fact. And that they react accordingly.  
> AKA: what would be the better twist/surprising moment/unexpected outcome for him? hmm?
> 
> (Okay, I’m stopping my rant about Pod)
> 
> (Same goes for about everyone, anyway. With different arguments of course, but it’s a note, so I can’t put an essay in there. Unfortunately.)
> 
> (I warned you, _every_ death will break my heart)


	14. Gonna take some time to do the things we never had

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m leaving you with this chapter, I hope you’ll like it as much as the previous ones :)

The three following days passed in a blur. After she ended her turn of finished seeing all the survivors, Sansa went back to where Arya was sleeping and had the Maester take a look at her ankle. It turned out that it was sprained, and her walking around hadn’t improved anything. Thus, she had been ordered to remain seated for the following three days.

Jon oversaw the funeral ceremony and the question of building a vault for Bran in the crypts, with the few of them who were able to stand. He oversaw the beginning of the rebuilding of the castle. So the only times Sansa was able to see him was when he had to be dragged into the room, already half-asleep. Brienne helped him as much as she could while being Sansa’s arms and legs. She was the one to relay the new of Lyanna Mormont’s and Briden’s passing. She was the one who announced that the carts of food from the Riverlands had finally arrived, two days after the battle.

Sansa didn’t leave her sister’s side for the time she was forced to remain seated. When Arya was awake, they passed time by speaking with each other. But mostly her sister was asleep, and then Sansa saw to her administrative tasks, received people who wanted to talk to her, sewed some warm clothes to pass the time and taught how to; to Gilly, Missandei and a couple of Unsullied who were bored by their convalescence.

Gendry, ser Davos, Tormund, her uncle Edmure and Sam sometimes stopped by, to exchange a few words and keep her up to date with what was happening in Winterfell, the North and, more generally, the Seven Kingdoms.

No one had any news of Daenerys Targaryen’s whereabouts.

No one had even evoked her name, but she could see clear as water that a single utterance would be more than enough to allow all the fury to flow free. Most of the Dothrakis and Unsullied died from the fever, more than in the battlefield which made them the most numerous casualties in this war. Which put them all on edge as to how the dragon queen will react at the loss of one of her dragon - children, she called them, Sansa reminded herself, one of her children - and the majority of her army. The remains of it were either begrudgingly accepted by the Westerosis for now, or were blatantly glared at, in Tyrion's and ser Jorah's cases.

She hadn’t witnessed the glaring first hand, but it was clear that the few full able-bodied people – men and women, highborn and common folk, from the North, the Vale, the Riverlands – were growing more and more restless with each passing day. She heard whispers, of how people couldn’t wait for all these foreigners to go back to the Targaryen girl, of how the imp and the slaver had more than trespassed their welcome here, welcome that hadn’t been given of their own free will. And Sansa knew with the increasing number of people that go back on their feet every day, the louder the whispers will turn. She wasn’t even sure she was aware of the whole extent of the growing irritation of her people.

“What’s wrong?” The sudden voice of her sister pulled Sansa from her thoughts. She had been persuaded Arya was sound asleep, as was the case for the majority of the people in the room. They were sharing a mattress, and the position coupled with the soft humming of hushed conversation between Lord Beren and Gendry and the warm weight of Ghost at her feet had been slowly lulling Sansa to sleep. She threw an interrogative glance at her sister's remark. “You’re frowning,” she explained, holding back a wince as she shifted in her make-shift bed. Immediately, Sansa started to sit up to help her. “Don’t. You can’t stand on that feet, Maester’s orders, remember?” She gifted her with a mischievous grin, “Not so great, being on the other side, hm?”

Sansa rolled her eyes good-naturally. She couldn’t say how relieved she was that Arya was teasing her like she used to, that she could witness her little sister truly smile. These past two days, talking with Arya was the only thing that could put her mind out of worry and despair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Arya sighed softly, and her mouth twisted in a small pout. “I know you were thinking about every problem of everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. You got _that_ face. The same Jon wears every morning when he leaves.”

Sansa nibbled on the inside of her cheek, suppressing an envious sound. She hadn’t been able to talk with Jon for more than five minutes in a crowded room, and it was with ser Davos hovering over them. Otherwise, she saw him half-asleep at the end of the day and stole glances at him during the night, when she was certain everyone else in the room was asleep. In the morning, he was gone before her eyes opened – but apparently not before Arya’s. She wasn’t jealous of her sister, no, she just missed him.

She didn’t rest much, but each second was spent thinking of him. Of him and them and the moments they spent with Arya and Bran and just the two of them. She couldn’t dwell too much on what happened two nights prior, for the constant presence of everyone around her and her own mental sake. If she spared a thought about him and what they did that night, she wouldn’t stay focused on vital matters the way they needed her to be.

“Of course, I’m worried. The castle is destroyed, everybody is either injured or killing themselves transporting stones, the Golden Company and the Iron Fleet are on their way to here according to ser Jaime, more than half our army died, no one knows what happened to the dragon queen, the survivors are growing more and more restless with her most trusted advisors… No one knows what happened to the Spider either,” she added as a second thought.

Her list was supposed to be longer than that, but Arya held out a hand and interrupted her. “And it’s the middle of the night. You’re not going to solve anything in the middle of the night.”

“Jon’s not here, yet.”

As if on cue, though, the main door opened and Jon entered, blinking heavily and his steps dragging. He seemed to half-carry Tormund while simultaneously being half-carried by him and barely had the will to shrug off his cloak before laying down and falling asleep more or less immediately on some blanket on the ground. Even though mattresses were once more available, after the more severe injuries were being treated, Jon hadn’t slept on one – or even a table, like Sansa did at first – since the immediate aftermath of the Great War.

Arya patted his hand gently before turning back to her, her eyes scrutinizing what Sansa was sure was a very open expression on her face. They both watched the other for some time; Arya serious and Sansa anxious. _I know you don’t believe me_ , she wished she could tell her, _but I understand. I understand how weird and treacherous it must be for you. I’m sorry. Please, please forgive me. Forgive me for what I want, forgive me for what I just have done, forgive me for what I did all those years ago. Forgive me for not having learnt better by now._

She opened her mouth and started to speak, “I was such an idiot,” she whispered, her confidences only for her sister’s ears.

Arya’s mouth, which had started to curl up into a small smile, fell open at her words. Her left eyebrow arched, and she leaned in. “What are you talking about?” she whispered back.

“The way I acted before… everything. I…”

Arya put a finger on her lips, effectively silencing her. “We already had it. The big, ‘I’m sorry let’s forgive each other’ moment.” She paused, her eyes turning scrutinizing once more, “Sometimes I really wish I could be in your head. Just for a moment. I’d really like to see for myself if you’re always putting thoughts in everybody’s head or if it’s just with me.”

“I’m not putting thoughts in your head!”

“What was I thinking, then? Just- right there?”

Sansa held back a sigh, embarrassed at having to spell out loud – well, whisper really – what was _obviously_ going on in her little sister’s head while she was looking at Jon and Sansa, whom she considered her brother and her sister respectively, while undoubtedly having figured out why her sister had left her room on the eve of a battle, to never return, and just after having confessed her strange interest on a man who – while not being her brother by blood – was still considered as such by Arya.

“You were thinking of Jon and me,” the word _obviously_ went unsaid. “I know you’re probably repelled with me a-”

“There!” She exclaimed, a bit too loudly, earning some half-awake groans and a few ‘shhh’ from the others. “You’re wrong about this. So, so wrong, big sister. I mean… I can’t say I’m overly excited about the idea of you wanting to… And him wanting to… To you…” She pulled a face at that. But when her eyes locked with Sansa’s again, they were neutral. “You like him, aye? He treats you right?” She paused, the small smile appearing again on her lips as Sansa bit the corner of her bottom one’s in an unsuccessful attempt to control the happiness that creep up her features.

“He does,” she mouthed through her smile.

“Alright then,” she nodded once, yawned and closed her eyes. Just like that, the conversation was over. Sansa couldn’t help but go over it once more, her sister’s reaction unexpected. Against all odds – and Sansa’s own fears – Arya hadn’t blamed her for being responsible of her favorite brother’s downfall. Nor for their family’s. Nor for her own twisted mind. However, one minute passed, another and another and Arya’s face remained calm.

She let out a long breath she had been half-aware she was holding. She threw a furtive glance to Jon’s form, can’t help but notice his stiffened shoulders under his jerkin and wishing she was brave enough to go lay on Arya’s other side, between her and Jon, and perhaps rub the tension away.

Arya chuckled, redirecting Sansa’s attention on her, “It fits,” she said.

“What about?” she asked, blinking slowly. She hadn’t snuffed their candle, but her vision was blurry all the same.

“Father promised, didn’t he? When we were in the capital. And, now, years after, with him not here anymore, it still fits. It will.”

Sansa shook her head in an attempt to clear it, wondering if it was only her drowsiness that rendered her puzzled or if her sister’s collection of words really did not make any sense. _If she wants to know what’s going on in my mind_ , she thought, _then the same goes for me_. However, when it turned out that Arya thought she was being completely understood and expected any kind of acknowledgement, she was forced to ask for clarification.

“You know… it was the last time we were together, the three of us, in a same room. You don’t remember?” She didn’t. Her last memories of Father were that despicable morning in front of the Sept and then later, seeing his head on a- Anyway, it had shunned out everything else – the bad, like Lady’s death, and the good, too, apparently. But that wasn’t the subject. “We were talking about Joffrey and he was saying…” She swallowed with difficulty while Sansa’s attention was riveted to her sister’s words and memories. “He was telling you he’d find another lord for you to marry. Someone who wasn’t Joffrey. Someone kind and… uh, no… brave and gentle and strong. That’s it! That’s what he promised…”

 _Brave and gentle and strong…_  
Yes, her heart recognized those words. She remembered being dismissive of them, only wanting to relive the story of Queen Naerys and be married to her very own Prince Aemon. Expect I had conveniently forgotten there needed to be an Aegon the Unworthy in the story. There needed to be cruelties and mourning and tears. Life is not a song, I shouldn’t forget that, even if Father tried to turn mine into one.

Sansa couldn’t help herself but wonder, in that precise moment, that if things had turned out differently… If Jon’s true parentage hadn’t had needed to remain hidden… If he had been able to grow here, in Winterfell, as a nephew of the Lord of the castle; accepted and appreciated by its Lady and then, by extension, by herself… Had Father ever entertained the thought of an alliance between…

But it was no use to dwell on what never happened. She remembered the girl she had been, and while Jon was now kind to her in return and had not held any grudge of the past, she was under no illusion of what Jon would have – and must have – thought of her as a child. Vain, spoiled and entitled she had been, quite the opposite of what someone brave and gentle and strong deserved.

“I didn’t remember…” she whispered, blinking away tears at the thought. She felt Arya shift before she took her hand between both of hers, squeezing just strongly enough to make her presence reminded.

“It was a long time ago.”

“But you do. You remembered him saying this, to me.”

“Well… I remember it because I thought it was a bit silly, at the moment. And then I heard the truth about Joffrey, and then you were married to the Imp. After that I kind of forgot about it – I was training, and I didn’t have the Hound grumbling every day about you anymore. But when you told me about Robert and Bolton, I… It made me think about it again.” She paused – for such a long moment Sansa thought she expected an answer to something. Her voice, when she spoke again, was strained. “So, yes, I guess I’m… glad you’re finally going to marry someone worthy of being your husband – even if everyone else still thinks he’s your brother, he’s still a better suitor than all the others.”

“Arya, you-”

“And everyone will be thrilled to know that the mad queen and the Lannisters ruling the North is history. You two will do…” She pulled a face, and Sansa understood. “Whatever it is you two will do,” she said quickly, dismissively, “and then I…” A mischievous grin appeared, “I’ll be the one who’ll teach your daughters who to fight.”

Sansa felt her own face starting to break down with a smile of its own as the picture her sister depicted began to lose its blurry edges and its colours to turn sharper. Her sister meant to tease her. _Who says my daughters won’t be just like me?_ she wanted to answer jokingly.

But as she started to form the first word, they both heard a muffled snicker coming from behind Arya. Immediately, her sister’s face shifted from teasing to surprise to mock-offense. “Were you listening to us, Jon Snow?” She turned on her back to maintain a conversation with the both of them at the same time. “These were private matters, discussed between sisters.”

"I can't do anything but listen when someone is talking in my ear... And when someone's kicking me leg when I'm trying to sleep," He added when she looked ready to retort.

Sansa, glad they didn't seem to pay attention to her, or her blushing cheeks as she couldn't help but recall the last time she had heard Jon's half-sleepy voice while laying down on a too hard mattress, rejoiced at witnessing them behave as close as they always have been.

“You’re saying it’s my fault? If I could do it – but I can’t, ‘cause Sansa’s here, you bet I’d have kicked you. Now, though,” she whispered when Jon hushed her, “she can do it. Sansa, do…” She turned her head back to her just as she tried to stifle a yawn and stopped.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jon told her, his eyes darting to Sansa as he said it, but never lingering. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Just as Sansa felt herself drift off to sleep, she heard Arya ask, “You still want to do it on the morrow?”

==-==

As soon as Samwell Tarly allowed it, Sansa was back on her feet and walking around Winterfell, only laying a bit on Brienne for support. She first went to see everyone who hadn’t been able to walk to her, stopped to exchange a few words with Lord Royce, enquired about his foot – it was healing satisfyingly – Tormund – who had his shoulder dislocated during the battle and so was unable to do any carrying, to his great discontentment – and Sosan. The little girl was cheerful, her face breaking into a grin as soon as she saw her coming close, and threw herself in Sansa’s arms, not letting her go as she talked with everybody present in the room.

“Is your father not with you?” Sansa asked when there was no more person to talk in the room. She couldn’t remember precisely what her father looked like just after the battle, but he hadn’t appeared injured, so he probably was off in the courtyard, helping with rebuilding the battlements.

“He leaves early on th’morning, my lady,” said a young girl who couldn’t be older than four-and-ten. “I’m the one watchin’ over her t’day.”

“Alright,” Sansa said, stroking Sosan’s back one last time before handing her over to the girl. She was quite certain the girl had fallen asleep as she walked around, and so did everything she could to not wake her. A futile wish, apparently. As soon as they commenced to switch her from one set of arms to another, Sosan started weeping and clinging to Sansa’s neck as hard as she could.

“Oh, my!” The girl groaned. “I’m very sorry, my lady! Come on, you! Stop bothering Lady Stark! She ain’t got more time for you,” she added when Sosan started to protest even louder in response.

As it seemed she had no other choice, but to be honest, Sansa didn’t want to upset the little girl even further, the poor thing was surely confused already by the absence of her mother and brother. “May I borrow you some furs? I wanted to go outside and it’s still cold.” To be outside in a simple sleepwear remained unspoken. They came down in the courtyard when Sosan was well bundled up and had regained her happy smile for it was clear Sansa wasn’t letting her go just yet.

Men and women were busy transporting stones to the walls or chopping off wood to rebuild what was once pillars and carts and roofs, or just running from one point to another, bringing food, water, clothes or messages. The snow was sparing them for the time being, but not the gusts of cold wind. Sansa spotted ser Jaime passing through the gates, carrying a trunk with a wildling, but Jon couldn’t be seen.

“Impressive what can be achieved in one night, isn’t it?” lord Tyrion said just behind her. She retained to bristle at his nerve to talk to her without introduction, as if they were dear friends and his queen wasn’t the one being responsible for the majority of the destruction. She also hoped that no northerner would see him talking to her, in a very selfish way.

However, the affirmative noise she heard from behind her, as well, proved her wrong. It did not come from her, it did not come from Sosan who was humming merrily. As she turned, an apology on her lips that died out when she saw his dark face and contrite expression, “I did not see you, Lady Stark, my apologies. We’re glad to see you back on your feet, you and, uh…”

“Sosan,” she provided him, reserving her warmest smiles for Cadder, whose left hand was holding Tyrion’s. The other one remained tightly bandaged. “Were you able to acquire some balm, for his hand?” There was a shortage of those since the beginning, but surely, they must have spared some for a burned child’s hand.

“Yes! We did. My brother brought some two days ago, and it helped quite a bit, didn’t it?” he inquired Cadder, who had been silently throwing shy glances up at Sansa since they came here.

“I just wanted to go see ‘Leina,” he whined, raising the bandaged hand as if the reasonable explanation of his actions would make the pain go away. It wouldn’t. Marleighna had been bedridden with fever in the familial house when the burning happened – she did not stand a chance. Sansa only hoped that Cadder hadn’t burnt his hand with the fire that took his sister and their home, but just before or just after. To have been so close… It was unthinkable – and impossible to ask.

“It’s very considerate of you to stay with him,” she noted, once the boy left to find his breakfast in the kitchens. “I’m sure he’s glad to have someone with him. Someone he knows and appreciates.”

“Oh, I’m not to praise! In truth I am as much his companion as he is mine. He’s not a bother. He is a good boy, not a very talkative one, but at least he talks to… But never mind. I’ll leave you to your occupations, Lady Stark, unless you have need of something?”

She observed him intently. He looked tired, resigned but he had made no mention of his dragon queen or of his thoughts. The Tyrion she had known had always revolted against injustice and cruelty. Perhaps only when it affected a small group of persons. If she could pry a little bit… “You don’t have any news from Daenerys Targaryen, do you?”

His face closed, “No.”

She pursed her lips in a false smile, not bothering to hide the falsehood in it. “Your loyalty is blinding, my lord,” she noted before walking away.

She quickly saw where Jon was, busy stacking stones in a barrow, as she adjusted her hold on Sosan, and strode to him without thinking much about her actions. Can’t the Lady of Winterfell support the Warden of the North when he was working as much – if not more – than any other? Especially since they share blood? Surely no one would see her blushing cheeks and impatient steps for what they barely hide?

She still felt as if everyone’s eyes were on her, everyone but his if the start he made when she touched his arm was anything to go by. We are in the courtyard, behind a pile of wood, yes, but still in a public place, she willed herself to remember this. She wanted nothing else but to hold him close – she still hadn’t been able to embrace him since that morning, three days ago. She missed him. And the four words they exchanged the night before were as brief as they were unsatisfying.

He bounced back on focusing on his task after barely looking at her, curtly bowing his head and muttering a “Lady Stark” in acknowledgement. It had the same effect as being drenched in icy water and Sansa was stunned on the spot.

“Ouch, Anza. Hut!”

“Sorry,” Sansa exclaimed, relaxing her hands that had started to hold on Sosan too strongly. The little girl had wiggled excitedly in her arms as they had approached Jon, but her excitement had fallen back pretty quickly when he made sure to never spare her a glance. She watched Jon working warily, now, unsure of the way she should act. She hadn’t expected a great change from how things where _before_ but still. And now, her mind was whirling. They had spent a night together, and he had seemed content enough then. In the morning, too. Had it only been a facade? Had he not been satisfied? It was true they had not really lain with each other but, as she recalled it, he was the one who ensured that did not happen. Had he given an explanation? She castigated herself for not remembering. He did talk about others, when she had mentioned ladies and their husbands and… She had been talking about him, and he immediately said something about how he’d defend her from other men. _I don’t want other men._

She emerged from her thoughts when he started pushing the wheelbarrow, circling around her as to not disturb her. “You should go back inside, lady Stark,” he said softly. She wouldn’t allow this, though, determined to obtain an answer. “Is there something in particular you wish to inform me, my lord?” she asked, a bit frostily perhaps.

He walked a bit before answering her, carefully not glancing at her even once. “No, I… Arya did not tell you?”

“Is she to be our envoy, now?” She couldn’t help but resent that a bit. “Are we only going to talk through Arya?”

“It’s perhaps for the best.”

 _What?_ she thought softly, pained.  
“What?” She gritted between her teeth, letting indignation supplant misery.

He stopped in the middle of the courtyard, forcing everyone else to divert their path as to not run over them or unintentionally hit them. “Perhaps we should consider having this conversation another time, lady St-”

Wouldn’t he cease calling her that? It was her official title, yes, but he was Jon – the warden of the North, her cousin, her lover – he had no need for curtsies and titles with her! He had never called her that when it was just the two of them, why would he start now? Now that the dragon queen was gone! Now that the war was won! Now that it was just the two of them! “When? We haven’t exchanged one word since-”

“I know,” he cut her off, then sighed tiredly. “Allow me to take that to the gates, and I’ll join you in the crypts.”

“In my study,” she rectified. At least it called for a more private encounter, as well as a less solemn one.

“Alright, in your study.”

“And I’m not allowing you to do anything,” she continued, walking away.

 _The best way to ensure toddlers do not make a fuss when you let them go sooner than they’d like to is to warn them of every action you’ll make that involve them. But keep in mind that children will always fuss a bit when they are separated from their mothers._ She wasn’t Sosan’s mother, but the advice was still relevant. She convinced her to calm down when she promised she’d be back sooner than the little girl would miss her. Sosan had been doubtful but had consented at being left in the good care of the girl who was chosen by her father.

Sansa strode to her study as fast as she could without falling down the stairs. The room had been spared in the destruction, which hadn’t been the case of her bedroom. However, her uncle had made sure the Lady’s chamber was first on the list of areas that needed rebuilding. She was lost in thoughts of what just happened when she heard the knocking at her door. Jon sheepishly came in.

She didn’t waste time. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, barely letting him sit down. It did not matter, for she stood immediately after. “Why are you behaving like that?” She despised the high-pitched tone her voice took. She despised the fact that he could turn her this desperate while he never seemed affected in this way around her. Sure, he had been gentle and affectionate that one time in his bed, but perhaps that's all it was: one time. Or perhaps it was usual to behave like he did. She herself had no idea, never had a lover and the little experience she had with her former husband wasn’t much help, nor were the memories of her parents.

For the first time in three days, he looked at her and did not budge. "I... I can't be seen too often near you. I'm... I'm sorry San- lady Stark. I don't know how it happened and - no, that's not true, I know how. I'll clear your name, don't worry, I'll tell the lords the truth today and your name shall be cleared."

"What are you talking about?"

His expression turned anguished. "They know. Arya, Davos, Jaime Lannister – they all know. I saw Lannister talk to your uncle yesterday, I’m sure he was telling him about this because I caught lord Tully observing me at least thrice just this morning and... I'm sorry. I know you mustn't have wanted that."

I did, she wanted to tell him, I do. But does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a bit of a delay between the 13th and the 14th because of my summer job – it ends next week, and then I’m going on vacation, so the 15th won’t be posted right now right now…
> 
> (I don’t know if I tell you this, because there’s half a chance it won’t be relevant by next chapter’s posting but) I’m planning on this main story having 17 chapters, so we’re nearing the end y’all! Which is great (I had promised to myself starting this that I’d try to finish it before the start of season 8, so I’m still on time)!
> 
> I wanted to post this chapter on Sunday (for my birthday and the finale of the World Cup - _Allez les Bleus !_ \- two birds with one stone) but it had been ready for a few days already and I was too impatient to wait!
> 
> (I’m always writing way too-long notes…)


	15. What a simple, human move when our fists loosen, when our phalanges spread without suspicion, a weapon of interaction – from battlefields to gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I’m glad the title’s not too long to fit in the 255 characters asked, I would have been disappointed)
> 
> Here’s the new chapter! Enjoy!

She had been ready to assure him of her regard, enquire about his and, had his answer been positive, they could have resumed their… closer activities. But it was obvious that while her mind was interested, his weren’t. “I told Arya the truth about me, and ser Jaime found out that day. He… Did he say something to you? Brienne told me he was going to talk to you. But you are right, I heard him talk with uncle Edmure, too.”

“Why would you tell them?” He sounded genuinely flabbergasted.

She recounted the confrontation she had with Arya, seeing his face turn very white then very red, his mouth open and close successively. “I don’t mind people knowing as long as you don’t mind them either,” she vowed.

“Right now, they all think we’re brother and sister.”

“And do you see people rioting?”

“The war has just ended! There are more pressing matters than who-”

“That wouldn’t have prevented them from having their case heard, you know that!” She walked around her desk, toying with the idea of sharing the argument ser Jaime told her, four days ago. Gods, it was so close while it seemed so far away! Just four days ago, she was in this very same room, terror-stricken at the idea of anyone knowing.

He closed his eyes, refusing once more to look at her. “I’ll tell the lords the truth. Today. They’ll name you queen. In fact, I’ll-I’ll do it right now,” he added, before whirling around and nearly launching himself at the door.

Seeing him running to leave was the reason why the first thought that came to her left her lips, “Will you marry me?” Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t the best way to broach the subject, but her proposal had the merit of stopping him dead in his tracks.

She saw his shoulders move as he inhaled deeply, and his fists tighten. _He always closes his fists when he’s trying not to touch me. Why is he always trying not to touch me?_ Hadn’t she made her desires clear enough? Hadn’t her words and actions that night been sufficient enough? She repeated her proposal – a part of her was vehemently protesting that scandalous statement, but she did her best to ignore it; at worst, if it really bothered him, they would say it had happened the other way around.

“They would not accept it, especially not after what Daenerys did here. Not a Targaryen marriage.”

“Then we just won’t do a Targaryen marriage. I don’t particularly want to marry a southerner, either.”

“That’s what I’m telling you!” He faced her at last. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders strained, his fists still tightly closed, and his eyes held a desperate gleam. “The only way we could be married is if I tell the lords of my true parentage, that it become a well-known fact and that, by the grace of every god there is, Daenerys doesn’t learn of it just now and the lords don’t bat an eye. Then we’d have to be Aegon and Sansa Targaryen, and so will our children. You know it’s not only the North who’ll find fault in that. No one in the Seven Kingdoms will sleep peacefully knowing that the Targaryens came back, even stronger than they-”

“Then we shall not be Targaryens! Marry me and take my name.” She was confident over this, even if this was the first time that thought crossed her mind; there was no way Jon would find anything against this.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said between gritted teeth. His resolve seemed to hold on by a thread. She could see it would only take a small push and…

“I do. We’ll be Jon and Sansa Stark, and so will our childr-”

She was prevented from ending her sentence when his lips captured hers, making her breath stop. She didn’t see him move, didn’t see the flicker of decision flash in his eye, but in one instant and two steps he was pressed against her, one hand cupping the back of her head and the other on her hip, holding her close. And his lips, gods. She couldn’t help but compare this kiss with the first few ones they exchanged on that first night. The gentleness was still there, of course, but it was relegated as an underlying sentiment in favor of the urgency of this one.

Jon was more pressing, opening his mouth almost immediately and gripping her hip more forcefully, yet she wasn’t scared. It was surprising that her body, that had been forced to learn to expect agony and craftiness from men, had taken over Jon’s lead so quickly. She found herself exhilarated, eager and relaxed, her want of him born on her lips and spread in her chest, at her core and all over her body.

Feeling her knees unstable, she walked backward until the back of her thighs met her desk, providing her with a support. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and arched her back, inciting him to press himself even closer, so that there would not be any space remaining between them. Wasn't that exactly what they just promised to each other? She could feel the burning heat of his body on her front, and, that added to the fire glowing and her still bundled in her warmest cloak, she was quickly growing too hot.

She lowered her head, letting their lips separate reluctantly on her part, their noses brushing against one another in a heart-melting movement. As she tried to regain her breath, she swore she could still taste him on her lips, she swore the thrilling mix of earth scents and fresh air smell was coming from his skin rather than the remnants of her mind. His hands were running up and down her back, underneath her cloak but above her dress, sending shivers to the back of her spine. Even the way he said her name, or, well, nearly growled it, only served in making her dizzier and more wanting.

“We could live here,” he whispered against her lips, stopping every few words to lay a kiss on her cheek, or her temple, or anywhere he could reach. His speech started out slowly, as his mind had to relearn how to form words, but it quickened as his excitement took over. “At Winterfell. I’ll be good to you, I promise. I swear everything you desire shall be yours, my lady. We’ll be King and Queen of the North, we’ll have the free folk as allies and no one will dare come north uninvited and take what’s ours. We’ll be good.” 

She silenced him by pressing her lips to his, trying to convey by their movements how much she yearned to feel his hands on her – preferably naked – skin and feel his under hers. “I know we will.” Then she added, as he did not hurry to discard her of her clothes and make her loose her mind the way he did on that other night, “Please, Jon.”

“Yes.”

And here they went again. She kissed him as if there was nothing more important in the world than making him understand she wanted him. She could feel his hips brushing delightfully against hers, once, twice, thrice…

She quickly lost count, his movements as pleasurable for her as they were for him, judging by his stuttered breathing and the fact that he groaned her name between his teeth, so as not to alert anyone who might be passing, during the seconds they were separated so they could regain their breaths. His right hand was clamped on her desk, preventing that the movement of his hips and hers combined would drag it on the floor and so keeping its noise to a minimum. And now, that was smart. She bit her bottom lip to stifle her own noises of yearning, even though he rasped and assured her that she didn’t have to do that, that he’d enjoy it greatly if her, if his lady, made all the noises she wanted.

“Soon,” she in turn promised.

The noises he made were lighting desire in her entire being, sure. She didn’t quite believe it would affect him the same, the other way around, but for now she only wanted him closer, closer, closer.

He seemed to understand what she wanted without her having to put it into words and grasped at her thigh, hooking it at his – still fully-clothed, but suddenly it wasn’t mattering so much – hip, making the angle change and… oh! It was way better like that, she thought as she arched her back even more, opening her mouth so that they could go back to kissing. His hand on her hip was slowly hitching up her skirt.

It wasn’t like in the songs, it wasn’t how she had spent hours picturing it, it wasn’t perfect – her desk was too low and she was pressed against its edge quite enthusiastically - it was much better than perfect. She wasn’t daydreaming about anything, she was focused on them, on Jon and, oh, how she wanted…  
She made a move to start unlacing his leather tunic – she still had some dexterity left, unlike the last time, when she-

“Lady Sansa?”

-had ridiculed herself, fumbling for who-knew-long for-

“Your Grace?”

Jon stepped back hurriedly as they both understood someone else was behind the door – thankfully closed. It did not matter, Sansa knew, for if that person had decided to open it without announcing himself, he would have been in for quite a scene.

“It’s not ‘Your Grace’, Lord Tully,” another voice said from behind the door. Sansa thought it might be ser Jaime’s, but she couldn’t be sure. Same as it was, if they came inside now, they would be in for quite a scene. Jon and her may stand once more at a more appropriate distance – and again, not if they are considered brother and sister – and that is how everyone considers you, she chastised herself – they were still trying to regain their breaths and cool down the blood in their veins. “It’s Lord Jon and Lady Sansa.”

“Oh! stop it, Lannister! I won’t tolerate your jokes much longer.”

“They’re not jokes! It _is_ the proper way of addressing them!”

“I know what you’re doing. Do you take me for an idiot?”

Sansa did not know how he was able to do it, but Jon composed himself more swiftly than her. The fire in her belly had not abated, and she found herself having to cool it down for the first time in her life, instead of willing it to ignite on its own. She wished her uncle and ser Jaime would just leave them alone and they could resume…

Gods, what happens to me?

“I would never, Lord Tully! You know what regard I have for your family.”

“I know… It is harmless for you. Only you have no idea what…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The ever-so-proper part of her was outraged at her reaction. Is it how a lady should behave? She could practically hear septa Mordane ask. No, a lady’s duty is to look forward to having children and to please her lord and husband and only once they are married. Not before, not being pleased by him in return, and certainly not looking forward on spending time in a man’s bed. Sansa was sure it also applied for a desk, even if no one had ever specified it. It must apply for anywhere.

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be in there anyway.”

“Where’s my niece then? You said you saw them walking back inside together.”

“I don’t know… Maybe ser Davos will.”

She thought it meant they would go away, leaving them alone for a few blessed minutes. But their steps didn’t move away, instead, another set came closer and closer. As ser Davos started to ask “You found ‘im?” in a curt voice, she was finally able to regain her composure.

“I’m sorry,” she saw him say the words more than she heard them, as they were drowned by the negative answers coming from the other side of the door and Davos’ long sigh of disapproval.

“Davos won’t say anything when your uncle’s here,” Jon muttered when she passed in front of him on her way to the door.

And he was right. Her uncle inquired about her ankle – her _ankle_. They stopped us for an ankle – while ser Jaime’s eyes had a knowing glint when they darted at her, but ser Davos stood in the corner, his eyes never leaving Jon for a second and never losing their scowl.

“Could you call all the lords in the Great Hall? I have an announcement to make.”

“We have an announcement to make,” she rectified, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Of course, my lord, my lady.” Ser Jaime said, with a hint of a tease in his voice, bowing swiftly to each of them. Ser Davos’ glare did not go unnoticed, nor did her uncle’s long-suffering sigh, even if he tried to muffle it.

The word spread quickly in the castle, and everyone that could walk and fitted to the description soon found themselves in what remained of the Great Hall.

“You’ve inherited some castle since this morning that I should know about?” Jon asked Tormund when he walked through the doors.

“Thought we’ve better keep in touch with what you’re all plotting. You no tryin’ to keep anythin’ from us, aren’t you Jon Snow?”

“I’m not. I have to talk about politics, and I thought it might bore you.”

“Ah, no doubt about that.” But Tormund shrugged before striding to where Grey Worm, the chief of the Unsullied, was sitting. The two of them made quite the odd pair, but for some reason or another, one could see them talking or training together from time to time. It was one of the few unexpected comradeships that were developed in the days that preceded – and followed – the war.

Jon looked a bit nervous, and he was exchanging a few words with lord Sam – she couldn’t call him ‘just Sam’, not when she had barely talked to him yet – who was clutching parchments to his chest. He was gesturing toward a man, who appeared to be middle-aged, standing next to a young dark-haired woman. Sansa briefly thought she had seen her face before, and in Winterfell, but she looked too young to have been a play-mate when she had been a child. They were probably lord Sam’s guests. Every guest of Sam Tarly was a guest of Jon, and so of hers too. 

The Great Hall was slowly filling with more known faces. Even lord Royce was there, leaning heavily on a cane to compensate his lost foot but putting on his normal face, making sure to bow his head when their eyes met. Tyrion and ser Jorah kept to themselves in a corner, trying to make themselves forgotten. Brienne was to be found sitting close to ser Jaime, making Sansa smile as she witnessed them talking quietly to each other, seeming completely oblivious of the rest of the world. Her uncle was hovering not far from them, talking with lord Hornwood and lord Manderly. Only Arya wasn’t there, probably still sleeping – or at the very least resting – with Gendry and some guards watching over her, to her sister’s great disapproval.

“My lords, my ladies.” Jon’s voice drowned the low-toned conversation, and everyone turned to listen to their king. Sansa was confident about the turn the announcement was going to take: the lords won’t be happy with the revelation that they crowned a Targaryen their king – which wasn’t true, but it was how they would see it – but a wedding and him taking the name Stark would appease them, for sure. They liked her, and they liked him. “There is still a lot of work to be done, a lot of resentment to be eased, even if our enemy is defeated. This winter will be tough, but the North will endure. We have always endured whatever was thrown our way, whatever sought to defeat us or crush us or split us apart, and always we ended up alive, stronger and waiting for the spring to come.” That brought some cheers from a corner of the Hall. Jon smiled briefly when he turned his head to her, their eyes locking up. “I hope the lot of you know that I’ve always done everything I could for the North, for my home.” People nodded in approval. “Even if I’m a Snow, born somewhere in the South, all my first memories are of Winterfell and of Lord Stark.” Jon paused to draw a long breath, a few lords frowned at the unexpected turn of this speech.  
“I’m sure some of you must have recognized Lord Howland of House Reed, a dear friend of Lord Stark who came to help us fight the army of the dead. His daughter, lady Meera, traveled with Bran beyond the wall and helped him become the Three-Eyed Raven. This allowed him to see everything that had happened and was currently happening. You must remember Bran and her came home not long after I had to leave for the South.” Again, Jon waited until the lords made their agreement clear. “Samwell Tarly, who spent some moons in Oldtown, training to be a Maester as I’m sure some of you are already aware of, can attest of my following words, as can Lord Reed as he was present. Bran came home with the intention of telling me about my mother. Unfortunately, the news could not travel by raven, he had to wait ‘till my return. He told me that, unlike what I’ve believed my whole life, my parents were not Ned Stark and some unknown woman but… Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

No one was talking. The silence stretched indefinitely. Sansa did not know if she could look at Jon – as she wanted to – or at the lords.

Jon started to speak again, but lord Reed interrupted him. He told them the circumstances in how Ned Stark found his dying sister, how she made him promise to hide her son from Robert Baratheon, how he had decided to pass him for his bastard to everybody. Lord Sam showed them the parchment proving that the Prince Rhaegar had annulled his first wedding with the Princess of Dorne Elia Martell to marry Lyanna Stark. He swore Bran Stark witnessed both their wedding in Dorne and the birth of his cousin _‘Aegon Targaryen’_. Still, no one spoke, though a few faces shifted from astonishment to a more guarded look.  
Only ser Jaime let out a bark of laugh, breaking the silence with near hysterical snickering before muttering “Of fucking course! How could we’d all thought otherwise… Poor honorable Ned Stark would’ve never… Seven hells…”

“I know it is… unexpected – it came as a shock to me, too. The North has always been my home, and I have no desire of a claim to the South. Of that-”

“Yet you have one,” the new lord Glover said. “Targaryens belong in the South, far from here.” Several of the lords agreed, but Sansa noted that the majority of them. “Sitting on their iron chair and ruling over their _six_ kingdoms.”

“His cousin… She’s his cousin,” ser Davos was frantically repeating under his breath.

“The North will never bow to the dragons again!”

“We know no king but the king in the North whose name is Stark,” Lord Manderly said proudly. “I’ve told you once, my lady, and I’m telling you again. I say lady Sansa should be our Queen!” More and more people cheered at that. Tyrion watched Jon with awe written all over his face.

Sansa felt the weight of lord Royce’s gaze on her, judging her reaction and she knew he’d act accordingly to whatever he’d find. Before anyone could get ahead of themselves, she stepped in, “Cersei Lannister is the one sitting on the Iron Throne for now, and she hasn’t recognized any Northern Independence nor any Northern ruler.”

“Where do you think the mad queen flew, when she betrayed us?” Lord Glover asked the crowd. To King’s Landing was the obvious answer, and Sansa wasn’t so naïve anymore to think it was just to talk. Yet she smiled inwardly: lord Glover just made it easier for them.

“And we all know Cersei Lannister will stand no chance against a dragon. Even with the help of an Iron Fleet and the Golden Company and the Bank of Braavos. Daenerys Targaryen, once she sits on the Iron Throne, will be thrilled to learn of the existence of her nephew. She’ll have no qualm in letting him rule his homeland.”

“A Targaryen on your ancestors’ throne, my lady?! That is what you’re suggesting?”

“Who says he’s not going to turn as mad as they all are? Who says he’s going to hold the North best interests against his family?”

“Targaryens will never rule the North,” Sansa said, “Starks will, just as we had for thousands of years. Jon and I will, as Starks,” she stepped closer to him as she spoke. As it appeared, marriage did solve everything for them. 

The lords were surprised, but she could see in their eyes that they were coming around to the idea – even the more stubborn ones could see the benefit of such an arrangement. They needn’t know they wanted it as much as the North needed it. You make peace with your enemies, not your friends. And what better way to make peace than a marriage? Who else but the Targaryens had ever held such animosity from the North? The lords knew it, she was sure of that. Some even started nodding in agreement. All finally did except…

“No,” Lord Tully spoke up firmly. “I do not consent to this. My niece will not marry a Targaryen.”

Sansa felt her eyes narrow against her will. She feared her uncle was as strong-willed as had been her mother, and anyone who shared Tully blood. She could sway his mind… perhaps. She didn’t know.  
She wished she could just dispense with his consent, or his approval, but she would need a male relative to walk her to her wedding and her uncle was the only one who could fit in the role. Society expected it, the lords expected it, the whole of Westeros expected it. She would need to find a way to make him see reason. She’ll talk with him as soon as the lords would part, she decided.

“She’s never going to agree to share the Seven Kingdoms. She considers them her birthright,” Tyrion said, frowning deeply, “she’ll turn mad as soon as you propose the idea, my lady.”

“She won’t,” ser Jorah protested, drowning the din of the lords’ personal answers. “She has always wanted to have a family! I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arm – her blood…”

“She’ll consider this a betrayal, Jorah. She’ll never-”

“She’s the one who betrayed us!” Someone shouted from the assembly.

Tyrion turned on himself, looking straight in the eyes of the Northern lords before muttering, “She’ll burn you alive. All of you, without so much as a second thought.”

Only shocked silence was his response – whereas it was for very different reasons on the two camps that were slowly forming. Ser Jorah on one side, the rest of them on the other, and Tyrion, Grey Worm and Missandei in the middle.

“This is our queen you are talking about,” ser Jorah seethed. “She had immensely suffered, she had taken back her honor and her pride by her own means, she cares for the people, she came here to save the Seven Kingdoms…”

“She came here to subjugate us all!”

“Have you forgotten all she did for you? She was kind to you, Lannister, when no one else was. She named you her Hand – what honor is greater than this one?”

“True. Then she proceeded to ignore every bit of counsel I gave her. I watched her fighting against the Lannisters soldiers. I saw how she treated the ones who refused to kneel, once the battle was over.” Tyrion was starting to get red in the face, his fists were white with the force he tightened them with. He was slowly standing up, joining ser Jorah who had been upright since the moment he started defending the dragon queen.

Sansa and everyone else were watching the catastrophe unfold.

“You traitor!”

“You don’t know what she did! You don’t know how she looked!”

“I believe in my queen. You should, too.”

“She looked every bit how my brother always told me her father looked!”

“She inspires faith in people.”

“SHE BURNED THE TARLYS ALIVE!” Tyrion bellowed, not listening anymore to ser Jorah’s counter-arguments. “THE FATHER AND THE SON!” He paused just long enough to regain his respiration. And then he kept on, seemingly unaware of who was present in the room. _Oh Gods, the Tarlys – lord Samwell_ Tarly. “She ordered Drogon to kill them, in front of the others, without remorse! To make an example! ‘That was necessary’ is what she told me!” Tyrion raised his glare up to ser Jorah and ceased talking when he saw the old knight’s shocked face and shocked gaze. Sansa mimicked him and followed ser Jorah’s gaze to the man standing on the other side of Jon.

Lord Sam’s face has turned ashen grey, his breathing was growing more and more erratic as the realization of what Tyrion had said came on to him. Jon was the first one to regain his mind, his features twisting in anger. He demanded precisions on what happened, his fury emulating the lords’. All their defiance about his blood momentarily forgotten as they once again backed him, an united front against another common enemy. After Ice came Fire.

Sansa felt as if she swallowed cold stones; it was obvious no one knew – Tyrion did, and he said nothing. He let them offer food and shelter to the Mad King’s daughter, a woman who killed men for the simple reason that they did not offer her their loyalties after she decimated their comrades. 

_You should have known_ , her guilt turning sentient and whispering inside her, _you should have figured it out._

How could I have? How could I see her and know she did such things?

_Ser Jaime told you how she acted during the battle where he saw her. You knew and what did you do? Let her go without as much as a scolding._

It wasn’t my place to-

_Just like it wasn’t anyone’s place to hold out a hand for you when you were prisoner of Joffrey and Ramsay. Cersei, too, watched without doing anything._

As usual when thinking her name, Sansa’s eyes sought out ser Jaime’s. Jon was supporting his best friend as he required news of his mother and his sister, of what happened to my brother’s body and why didn’t anyone intervene. How could so many people just stood there and do nothing? Just watch father and son being burned alive by dragonfire?

Ser Jaime’s eyes locked with hers on those precise words. An unspoken remembrance of the conversation they had, in the soldiers’ camp, that morning. He nodded once.  
There was only one thing to be done.

He knew it.

She knew it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re nearing the end, everyone – I just realized I said 17 chapters in the last one’s end note… I forgot to count one, so it’s gonna be (if everything goes accordingly) a total of 18 chapters. Silly me!  
> As you probably figured out, the calm part of the story is over x) I hope you savored it while it lasted!


	16. There are burnt lands donating more wheat than the best April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Beware of the tags)  
> (Holidays are over :( so I'm back with internet :))
> 
> Fair warning: there’s not a lot of dialogue in this one.
> 
> This chapter turned out nothing like I planned.  
> Like… nothing. The characters just wanted to do and say completely different things than I wanted, and even if I tried to resist at first, they just kept going back to what they wanted to do so I… ended up yielding.  
> So… remember when I said that the calm part of the story was over?  
> Well I hope you like this not-planned-at-all-chapter.

Ser Jorah’s features looked ominously white; he had a devastated look on his face, as if he just lost his purpose in life. Sansa couldn’t help but make a few steps toward him, her hands raised in an attempt of comforting him. It was obvious the man had had no idea of his queen’s actions.

“Sansa,” her uncle interrupted her, putting himself in her way. His hands came up to encircle her arms, keeping her where he wanted her, restrained, and this thought made her fought back a flinch. She barely heard him go on talking, so preoccupied she was with controlling her breathing, “you can’t associate yourself with this family, for the love of the Mother. They are-”

“GET OFF ME, YOU PERVERT!” The shout came to her ears and she saw her uncle’s eyes widen. The whole room was silent for a moment, just long enough for her to wonder if she had been the one who screamed. But no, she would never…

The sound of a mass falling loudly put her mind straight and she followed the small group that left the Great Hall to investigate. A small lump took its place in her throat: ‘you pervert’, it did not leave much to the imagination as to what was happening. In an instant, she felt dizzy and was forced to stop hustling and come around. And the picture she came through, when she entered the room, did nothing to assuage her.

Her sister was red-faced, fury evident in her eyes and clutching Needle in her left hand. The furs she had been sleeping in were rolled at the foot of her bed, as if thrown hastily away from her body, but her shirt and breeches were still into place. Sansa pushed her way to where her sister was laying down, still under the orders of the Maester. Her horrified mind quickly put two and two together as she felt the shaking arms of her sister hugging her close.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sansa tried to soothe her as best as she could. Which surely was a rather unsuccessful attempt as her own voice couldn’t stop shaking. She could only be there, trying to do what she would have wanted someone to do when it happened to her. “We’re here. It’s alright,” she repeated.

She waited until Arya stopped shaking before darting a look at the floor. There, unconscious, a Dothraki laid sprawled on the ground, his breeches opened, two bloodied knuckles laying far from the hand they used to be a part of. Jon had drawn Longclaw and was observing closely the not-so-steady rise and fall of the Dothraki’s chest and Gendry was doing the same, kneeling near the tall man’s shoulders, his hammer in one hand, ready to strike at the first sudden movement. Lord Tully and the few other lords who did not run in opposite directions – since people thought whoever it was would have surely tried to escape. They hadn’t counted on her sister’s swift moves and Gendry’s reaction to knock the man unconscious.

“He tried… He tried to…”

“He did. But you fought back, and he didn’t.”

“Gendry helped me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sansa willed herself to smile softly, and was relieved when Arya returned it, albeit a bit shakily. Her sister seemed to calm down on her own, without needing her help.

“It’s surely not the first time it happens,” her uncle said, reproach evident in his voice, still addressed at Jon. “Dothrakis are known for their brutal ways-”

“The room was guarded,” Jon frowned, looking around. He seemed to just remember that fact. However, there was no guard to be found – if they still had been at their posts when it happened, they’d since fled.

“My niece was nearly raped by one of them, and _your_ guards did nothing to prevent that… savage from coming inside! Because _your_ family brought those people on our land, to sack and destroy and rape as they will. Perhaps family means something different for a Targaryen, but I demand they leave. Immediately. Take them away, Targaryen. You’re all not welcome here anymore.”

“Jon’s not going anywhere.” It was Arya who spoke first, interrupting what Sansa had planned to say. “And if someone’s not happy ‘bout it, they’re the ones who aren’t bleeding welcome here anymore.”

Their uncle shook his head and muttered something about leaving Arya to rest before leaving the room. Arya was now too upset to do anything, much less rest. Gendry and Tormund carried the Dothraki to the cells. Jon stayed to talk to the Lords, and as the days passed, he reached some common ground. Sansa assured him she would handle her uncle, while refusing ser Jaime’s offer for help. “For the best, I think,” according to him.

That matter with the Dothraki and the dreadful revelation of what happened to the Tarlys allowed people to concentrate on something else than the revelation that Jon was a Targaryen. Thus, people hadn’t whispered too much between them when Jon and lord Reed came to talk with them. Jon told her, one evening, that surprisingly, people had more trouble accepting that he had a claim to the Iron Throne – something they truly despised and that wouldn’t go away by a change of name and a marriage with the newly named Queen of the North.

Lord Sam had left for Horn Hill with Gilly and the baby and Missandei – who couldn’t bear what happened – on the same evening as Tyrion’s reveal. Tyrion also left with them, with Cadder who never were far away from him. Ser Jorah had left the following morning with the rest of the Dothrakis and the few Unsullied who still followed their ‘Mhysa’, riding and marching to King’s Landing, where ser Jorah believed Daenerys Targaryen had flown. The Dothraki who had tried to assault Arya had his hand cut before he was forced to leave his horse here and walk with the Unsullied – a great shame, according to ser Jorah.

In the end, Edmure Tully did not ride back to Riverrun. Instead, he stayed and made a point to try to convince Sansa to forget all those “useless, ill-thought and dispensable” ideas, as often as he could. He managed to find her every day, sometimes even several times a day, while maintaining his engagement to help with the rebuilding of Winterfell at the same time.

The first time he had accosted her outside her study had been on the second day after the leave of ser Jorah and the most of the dragon queen’s army. The conversation had started on good words, Sansa had mostly wanted to convince him as she had observed Jon do to the others – reasonably, collectedly and nicely. Unfortunately for the both of them, due to a regrettable addendum of her uncle’s pride and her own, the good intentions did not hold and soon they were too caught-up to listen to the other.

The second time had been only a few hours later, when she came to him to apologize. “I have faith that we might find a compromise. Uncle, this marriage will hold the North together-”

“So would a marriage with another lord. What will he bring to the family? An army of wildling?”

She swallowed back a groan at that. Her uncle might think he had her best interests at heart, but only provided they did not differ from his. It had been so long since someone wanted to marry her off for their own good, she had nearly forgotten what it felt like. Well, if this was what he wanted to talk about, so be it. Perhaps the practical aspect of it would be enough to persuade her uncle, though she despised it. “The free-folk are part of the reason we are still alive today, uncle. They’re the ones who had the most knowledge about the army of the dead and the White Walkers and they fought beside us. The war was won thanks to them. And Jon is their main ally here.”

“That is true. But he is not the only one who brought an army to our help. Many have down the exact same thing, and some have a better name, a stronger claim over a real holdfast or land. They’d make better matches for you.”

“I know him. I know he’ll never harm me – which is something that couldn’t be said for the so-called better matches that had a better name or a stronger claim over a holdfast or a land. I have already been married by force to men like that, and what did it bring to me, to the family? Being lady Lannister, or lady Bolton, or even the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Nothing. And would you consider Tyrion Lannister, Ramsay or Joffrey good matches?”

Lord Tully let out a deep sigh, “Of course not. I would not be so careless in my choice and your caution is heard. I shall find a suitor that answer to all your concerns and hush them.”

“Jon does. Uncle, please.”

“But not a Targaryen. I won’t back on that, my lady. As your closest blood relative, you are under my protection and a Targaryen… cannot be trusted.” He clasped her hand, giving it a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring. As to Sansa, she was doing all she could to not scream in frustration. “I wouldn’t trust one of them with you. You deserve the best, and the best is not the heir of a tyrannical and mad dynasty.”

He was called away after those words and so left her barely standing in the corridor. Her frustration hadn’t stopped growing during the conversation, without any outlet to let it flow away and she was seething. She was suddenly so very tired and wanted nothing more but to find Jon at this instant and spend the remaining of the day in his arms. However, Jon was unfindable in the Godswood – where he had told her the previous evening he would spend the day.

That evening, in which she had placed all her hope, found him so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open, so she urged him to go sleeping instead on passing by her study to talk, as they used to. He offered her a grateful smile at that, one she had not so much trouble returning. She spent her own evening and the major part of the night longing for his presence, desiring only feeling him _close_ , her frustration bubbling to the surface every time she would turn or reach over her bed, only to find him absent.

When her uncle came to her on the morrow, after lunch, to tell her that her cousin Robert Arryn – “The Lord of the Vale,” he reminded her as though she could forget, “who helped you win back Winterfell” – would make a wonderful match for her, she slammed the door in his face.

She was fuming as she paced inside her study. She wouldn’t marry Robin, even not for the Knights of the Vale. She hadn’t married Littlefinger, she wouldn’t marry him either!  
Deep down, she knew her uncle had the best intentions and that he was only doing his duty to her: ensure she had a suitable husband, since her father and her brothers passed. Had one of them be still alive, they would have done the same. She knew that, rationally.

Though, before everything, Jon had promised her he would never force another husband on her, when she had asked him whom he planned to marry her to. They had needed men to retake their home, and marriage had come as a natural solution, an obvious one. His promise had surprised her – they had still been at Castle Black at the time, their relationship as tentative as one could be – and her relief had been ineffable, for it had been an unusual decision. A bad strategic move, Littlefinger would have said, to not use every pawn at one disposal in order to achieve what one wanted. But a kind one, she would have retorted. As her only male relative alive – as her uncle was right now – he would have been completely in his right to marry her to one of lord Glover’s grandson, or anyone of his fancy.  
But he did not.  
And she was now reminded once more how lucky she was to have found him.

Nevertheless, she shouldn’t dwell on this too much, for there were many matters that required her full attention, public ones as well as personal. She wouldn’t let her uncle secure any other match for her but the one she already decided on. But she was currently listening to lady Karstark’s request of sending an envoy at Karrhold, to ensure the rebuilding could start as soon as possible, and her uncle was helping the rebuilding of the gates outside, and so she needed to focus on that. She also had to forget seeing Jon on the evening, having promised to help Marleigh Batler sew new clothes for her newborn baby, a girl who was born on the afternoon.

The lack of their private conversations on the evenings had the unfortunate result to make her particularly conscious of every moment he was in the same room as her. Thankfully for her ragged nerves, it wasn’t frequent. But on the other hand, she was certain an hour would be enough to set her mind back straight. She was reaching a point where she was contemplating inviting him to her chamber, since her study was always full of people clamoring for this or that. She nearly forgot herself on one or two occasions, starting to walk closer to where he was standing during the meals or lean over her desk when he tagged along with other rebuilders – mostly from the freefolk and common people, those who hadn’t given a second thought for his parentage – in her study. She hadn’t even had the decency to be embarrassed when ser Jaime caught her gaze, that time, during a meal, when Jon’s hand had brushed against hers. It must have been on accident, anyway. Jon had never initiated any sort of contact – even less in public places – and had always looked pointedly at the hand touching him until she’d removed it.

When it happened again, the following day, she did not think much of it either. However, for the third day in a row – and every time the touch was more pressing, lingered longer than the previous one, always accompanied with a longing look that made her insides twist in the most pleasant way – Sansa started to believe he was as affected as her. Her realization must have shown through her gaze because the next time she saw him in her study, he was only with her uncle Edmure – who had started following him around, the way ser Davos used to, when he was with her, uncaring about her annoyed looks – and offered to accompany her through Winterfell to oversee the reconstruction. 

It was her daily walk, and usually she did it escorted by Brienne and ser Jaime, more often than not feeling like a third-wheel to their soft conversations and teasing banter, or with her uncle who, when he wasn’t following Jon with a sour look on his face, spent his time with her. She agreed nonetheless, delighted and giddy as a little girl at the prospect of spending time with him, even though her uncle had endorsed the role of her chaperon once more and quite resolutely. It was no matter, anyway. They simply laughed under their breaths at his attitude, forgetting for a moment what it implied for them. Sansa caught a few hesitant glances thrown their way but mostly people nodded in passing or readily saluted them, seemingly not adverse at seeing them together, walking around the castle as they had seen her parents often do.

In the end, her uncle was the only one who was bothered by it, it seemed. No one blinked when she took Jon’s arm, except her uncle. Time and again he would encourage them to hurry or send desperate looks to ser Jaime or lord Glover or ser Davos and time and again they would slow down their steps, or she would stop and ask for his opinion on this or that matter. At one moment, though, she thought her uncle’s barely concealed sighs had finally worn Jon’s patience because she heard him take a sharp intake of breath in the middle of her recounting a silly memory of her and Jeyne Poole’s glee at the Hand’s tourney in King’s Landing before he removed his arm from her grip, smiling, and strode away. He had asked her to talk about it, she thought, puzzled, watching him walk away in one motion.

Immediately, lord Edmure jumped at this chance to walk her back to her study. “Have you thought about my proposition, about Lord Robert?”

She sighed in annoyance, “I have, uncle. I won’t marry Sweetrobin.” When was he going to understand? How could he ask her this when Jon was here one moment ago?

“Have you ever considered it?”

“I have. Aunt Lysa wanted to marry me to him when I was hiding in the Vale, before she happened on Littlefinger kissing me. I remember a rude child, very much in love with his own importance. I know he since became a ward to Lord Royce. Yet lord Royce spent more time in Winterfell with me than with his ward.”

“Your cousin probably grew up.”

“Have you ever met him?” She suspected the answer to that question, if the regular letters sent to lord Royce about Robert were to be believed. Her cousin hadn’t changed one bit from the child who destroyed her snow castle only to annoy her. However, Maester Wolkan came to them, holding a letter for her.

She saw with dread that it bore the mark of the three-headed dragon.

_Her Grace Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen was disappointed to not find you, Lady Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Queensguard, with her army and myself. King’s Landing fell into her hands. She awaits the both of you, as well as the representants of the other kindgoms in your alliance, for Cersei Lannister’s trial and her following coronation._   
_Ser Jorah Mormont,_   
_First Commander of the Queen’s Army,_   
_Lord of Bear Island on the order of Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

“I something wrong, my lady?” Suddenly Jon was at her side, holding a rose in his hand, his face losing its carefree look as he read the words of his aunt’s closest adviser. No doubt he would have told her all about his parentage and their marriage plan – and she invited them to King’s Landing. There was no mention of it, only Jon was apparently named Lord Commander of her Queensguard and she wanted the First Lords’ presence for the coronation – to bend the knee was only implied, but very much obvious.

_Cersei Lannister’s trial_ it said. That meant she was alive, probably locked in the cells of the Red Keep. She would be found guilty, that Sansa was certain, of whatever crimes the dragon queen would see fit. And then there would be her coronation and then… What after?

What about the North, who crowned her Queen? What about the pledge lord Royce and her uncle had made to her? What about the dragon queen’s own crimes – Winterfell destroyed, the Lannister army slaughtered, lord Sam’s family butchered, her own oath to help them forsaken? 

“The North did not break, my lords, nor will we bend,” she announced to the crowded Great Hall once everyone has been informed of the missive. “We have to go for we cannot risk her coming back with her dragon. But I swear we will return home freer than we are now,” she quickly glanced at ser Jaime at that, “and under rulers we’ll have chosen.”

“We choose you, Lady Stark. We’ll always do,” said lord Glover.

“So will the Vale.”

“If this is alright with you, we will leave tomorrow.”

Arya grumbled at that, disgruntled that Maester Wolkan had deemed her not strong enough for the journey, even if, according to her, it had already been two weeks and she had survived worse.

Yet she, Jon, ser Jaime, her uncle, Gendry, two knights of the Vale – at lord Royce insistence – and five Northmen would ride on the morrow to White Harbor, sleep there and take a boat to King’s Landing. They planned to arrive in the capital in three days at worst, if the weather was against them. The North will remain in the hands of lord Reed, ser Davos, lady Karstark and Brienne until their return, and Arya will have a special place in every decision the North will take – not that Sansa imagine there will be many – for _there must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

This reason was the only thing that made Arya agreed to stay there, even if it meant missing the trial and more-than-probable execution of Cersei Lannister. “And that’s something I spent _years_ wanting!” Secretly, Sansa was glad her sister would be spared that.

==--==

She toyed once more with the idea of asking Jon to come here, her eyes resting on the flower he gave her this afternoon with an apology. Then, he had to oversee the preparations for the journey on the morrow and she had to give her recommendations to the North Small Council – a jest by ser Jaime, approved by everyone – about the North.

Had Jon’s room been rebuilt, she would have run there without a second thought. But Jon was sleeping in a tent with the freefolk and she wasn’t brave enough to join him there. Now, she could send someone to fetch him – even though the idea didn’t sit well with her, she wasn’t desperate enough to reach that point. Was she? – but who? Brienne would be too obvious, and she wasn’t going to use her closest friend like that. Ser Jaime would accept, but not inconspicuously. Her uncle Edmure wasn’t even an option. Guards or serving girls would be the surest way of making everyone aware of it, she thought annoyed. All that was left to do was forgo the idea, lie down on her bed and try not to worry about the upcoming confrontation with the dragon queen.

And Cersei.

In King’s Landing.

Sansa let herself fall on her bed at the prospect. She couldn’t decide which of the three she dreaded the most, and yes, the city in itself filled her with fear just as much as the two queens who wished to rule over it.

Someone knocked, raising her from her mulling thoughts. Surely lord Tully, she couldn’t suppress her annoyance at that. He was coming with them to the capital, so Jon and her wouldn’t be able to spend time alone even during the journey; and he wanted to make sure she was alone in her chambers for the night, or came with another name for her, expecting this one will be special, won’t be turned down like all the others. She was ready to slam the door to his face once again, if need be and to hell with propriety.

However, it wasn’t her uncle behind the door and she sucked a sharp breath at the sight of Jon’s hopeful half-smile. “I hope I’m not too presumptuous, my…” He didn’t have time to finish his sentence for Sansa threw her arms around his neck, her lips effortlessly finding his, and dragged him inside. His hand found hers as they reached simultaneously for the door, closing it behind them, never parting from each other.

The next moments passed in a blur of hunger and pleasure and before she could form second thoughts – or even firsts – she found herself straddling him, pressing her upper body to his and one hand clinging to his half-disrobed back. He was panting loudly, his breath following the pace set by his hands on her hips, that encouraged her every movement. Her own desire kept on increasing and fueled bold and bolder thoughts about how the sight of him in her bed, the feel of him beneath her made all concerns of property fly away, how she yearned to have him run his hands all over her skin, the way he did the last time. And then… And then it wouldn’t end up like the last time, no, there wouldn’t be any trace of hesitation. Nothing of that. They would love one another, as one soul, one heart and one body. Yes, just love and pleasure and trust, just them.

She wanted it and she thought he wanted it too, yet as she attempted to lie down on her bed and drag him on top of her, his hands shot out, not to help her but to prevent her from doing so. She looked at him with startled eyes as her foggy mind reminded her that it had happened in a similar way the last time.

He was disconcerting. His actions said one thing, but his gaze remained as loving as it was before, and his palms still caressed her softly and her hands were still brought to his lips and tenderly kissed.

“Why not?” She braced herself for an answer that promised to be quite unpleasant. But it was the second time this happened, the first one she had let herself be swayed away from any possible concern, and she wasn’t going to do nothing.

“I don’t want to- I mean… I can’t.” It felt as though he punched her in the gut. She thought she was ready to hear an unpleasant answer, but that was even unexpected. And it didn’t make any sense – they were going to get married, they had spent the last days showing the lords the benefit of such a union and – gods – he was _kissing_ her, and she wriggled a bit on his lap, eliciting a groan and a snap of his hips. She could feel his desire pressed against her belly – and that was only one clue beyond all else.

“What do you mean?” She asked, putting his hands back on her and arching into him, trying to spur his desire even more.

Jon frowned, his hands going up and down over her shift. “What do you? As we’re not husband and wife yet, I can’t. It would… I don’t mean to dishonor you and I don’t want to...” He sighed and brought their foreheads together. “I know it sounds stupid. I don’t want to risk fathering a bastard?” It probably wasn’t meant as a question, but it sounded like one.

“It doesn’t sound stupid. It’s very honorable and we should… that’s what we should do.” She didn’t move off him, though, waiting for him to say something, to change his mind, to resume kissing her. When none of that happened, she willed down her frustrated sigh that threatened to bubble up and make itself known. She pursed her lips and made to stand up, but she was held into place.

“Indeed, we should,” he consented but she was still in his embrace.

“Or I could make sure it doesn’t happen,” she said, watching his eyes darken at the thought and feeling his hands pressing her closer. “I know of ways.” 

She could feel his resolve crumble little by little. “How?”

“Maester Wolkan had to consider the question. He told me that I wasn’t going to have a child as long as I had all those bruises and-”

“I’m not going to hit you!” He flinched away from her, as if the simple fact of saying the words would make them happen.

“-that I needed to eat way more than I did.” She smiled hopefully at him, yet his horrified look did not waver.

“I’m not going to let you starve yourself either!”

“I’m won’t starve myself,” she protested. “I’ll just forgo a meal tomorrow. I never had more than bread and water to eat, and stew once a week. We were already planning to eat lightly for midday meal tomorrow, it shouldn’t take more than that.” He still looked unsure about the whole question, though less so than a few seconds ago.

She tried to sway him with kisses, promises that they’d be careful, observations that, should it still happen, she wasn’t planning on waiting nine moons before marrying him, and he finally let her fall on her bed and be dragged with her.

“Just this once, my lady. I give you my word.”

He silenced himself when he turned them around, he was the one laying on his back on her bed, and she the one straddling his thighs. She discovered she hadn’t been wrong putting her trust with him – she had never doubted it – even if he didn’t exactly keep his word. 

But then it had been as much her doing as it has been his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm part of the story is _really_ over and now the coming storm approach (or well, they’re getting closer to its eye).
> 
> (Please, let me know what you thought of this one?)  
> (I’m really unsure about it, it’s awful)


	17. It's a choice we're making; we're saving our own lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The true enemy brings the storm_  
>  I could have chosen that one for my chapter’s title but it wasn’t from a song (or well, could be from _The Song of Ice and Fire_ ) and I figured that verse matched quite well with what’s in the chapter (at last) (‘cause it’s not true for every chapter)
> 
> (There’s a bit of blood at the end, but well… it’s a trial in GOT)
> 
> And I’ve got nothing more to say besides… enjoy!

That famous word remained infringed thorough their journey south, as was her promise to forgo the midday meal – but she had been too hungry to restrain from eating her fill, and when their eyes had locked, he had made no comment on it, only smiled.

She was finishing folding the dresses and underclothing she had brought with her in her trunk, the captain having sent a word that they’d berth at King’s Landing in an hour or so, when her uncle Edmure barged in, as short-winded as if he’d come running from the other side of the ship to her cabin. His blue eyes were wide-open with fright and couldn’t seem to decide if they settled on her or if whatever was happening behind him deserved more attention.

“Are we landing soon?” She asked, apprehensive of his disheveled state. The last time she saw her ever-composed uncle with such a look, he had been fighting an army of dead men for several hours.

After a few futile tries, Edmure Tully finally ended up saying something. “King’s Landing, Sansa it’s… It would be better if you came on the deck.”

She followed him wordlessly. The first thing she saw on the deck was ser Jaime, his gaze lost over the horizon, sitting on the ground, not moving a muscle, in the middle of the way of panicked sailors. She thought for a brief instant that they were attacked by pirates, but quickly dismissed the idea: she doubted her uncle would have brought her outside her cabin if this was the case. Edmure Tully pushed her slightly forward and it was only then that she understood what was missing. The coast was discernable – which hadn’t been the case for hours, due to what the captain had thought be a dense fog – yet where the capital was supposed to stand there was… dust. Nothing but dust and smoke in lieu of the Red Keep, the Street of Sisters, of Steel, of Flour, of Silks and even Flea Bottom. No castle, no gates, no houses. No King’s Landing.

She stayed dumbfounded, her mouth half-open, for what was probably hours, too shocked to form a coherent thought beside _the black one is still flying above it all._ Drogon, after a moment she remembered Tyrion saying it was its name. It seemed impossible that one dragon could burn a city to the ground, something else must have happened. Even Winterfell, after three dragons flying and breathing fire above it, had still somehow been standing. But King’s Landing was no more, and only some fuming spots could attest that buildings could have been found there, not so long ago.

It seemed to her as if she could still hear people screaming – had they even had the time to understand what was happening to them, she wondered as she walked closer to the edge of the boat. Ser Jaime was muttering something when she passed next to him, completely obvious to the outside world. What she saw when she reached the edge was probably one of the most heartbreaking sight of her life. They had passed the city and the captain had found a place where he could accost without damage to his boat, and it appeared their presence hadn’t remained unnoticed. A small crowd of people were gathered near the coast, kept back from coming too close to the boat by a line of Unsullied soldiers. But that did little to stop them from trying to pass through. Their screams resonated within her, scared, desperate sounds. Children were raised above the crowd by begging parents but the Unsullied held on.

“They want to come aboard.” Jon’s presence startled her, she hadn’t heard him coming. He had to stand really close to her ear to make himself heard over the cries. “I suppose you wouldn’t agree to stay on this boat and let it take you back home.”

She shook her head, making him sigh. “I’m not leaving you. We’ll go together, and we’ll leave this place together.” They had planned to give his aunt an ultimatum: Jon would publicly renounce to any claim over the Iron Throne and, in exchange, the dragon queen will grant the North its independence, making the North and the Six other Kingdoms allies. If she refused, she would find herself at war with the North, the Riverlands, the knights of the Vale – if not the whole Vale – and the Westerlands. That would only be a threat, though. The truth was that no one wanted to go back to war, and so she had told Jon that ser Jaime had volunteered to kill her, should things go wrong.

Theirs was a good plan, Sansa assured herself once more. Queen of the Six Kingdoms was better than not being queen at all. And even in such circumstances, the North would be safe, for the alliance with the Riverlands and the Vale would still be predominant over any southern oath, and ser Jaime had assured her again and again that his loyalty was to her and Jon, and not the Mad King’s daughter.  
The only precarious point was ser Jaime’s official position in Daenerys Targaryen’s plans. He was the obvious choice as a Lord of the Westerlands, but she had never liked him, nor had he ever hidden his own dislike. But even if she would name someone else as Warden of the West, the Lannister army would remain loyal to its Commander. And if it eventually ended up to war, the Lannister army was what mattered.

But do not worry about that, she chided herself, Daenerys will agree to the ultimatum and there will be no war. Perhaps she had lost control over her dragon – Tyrion had told her it had happened, once – or perhaps she had made sure to have the city emptied before burning it to the ground. Cersei was in this city. Remember what she did to you, to your family. She deserves to suffer – and watching the Red Keep burning surely hurt her.

Sansa hoped the Iron Throne and the Throne Room had burned with everything else.

“I’ll go talk to her as soon as we land, then maybe we’ll be able to leave immediately after. I’ll see if the captain can wait for us.” That hadn’t been part of the plan, but then when they had made it, King’s Landing had still been standing.

“You forgot Cersei’s trial,” she blurted out when he started leaving. 

Jon stopped dead in his track, “I don’t want to spend any more time than I need here. The sooner we can leave, the better. We don’t need to stay for a trial.”

“I think I do. It’s Cersei Lannister.” He didn’t look as if he saw her point. She understood, he only saw Cersei once, months ago. He didn’t live years under her rule, angry and afraid and… admirative. I’m not Cersei, though.

“She’ll be judged. She’ll be executed.”

“I need to be there. I need to know when it’s truly over.” Joffrey, Ramsay, Littlefinger. Knowing they were dead, seeing it with her own eyes, allowed her to sleep and breathe more easily.

“It won’t change anything, Sansa,” he said softly. She disagreed at that. Cersei was different. She didn’t hate her the way she did with Joffrey, Ramsay and Littlefinger – a visceral hate mingled with scorn. No, she didn’t despise Cersei – or, at least, not as much. She hated her, but that feeling was tinted with fear. She feared her, of what she could do, but more importantly she was scared she could become like her, even in small ways. She was scared it was too late.

Finally, they were able to accost, and Sansa made her first step back in that dreaded place with her uncle at her side, five Northmen and two knights of the Vale surrounding them and ser Jaime in front of them. Sansa felt observed, scrutinized by the common folk. She briefly entertained the idea that they might recognize her, before dismissing it. Even if it was the case, how did it matter to her?

The Unsullied formed a passage leading to Daenerys Targaryen, flanked by Dothrakis and her Queensguard and surrounded with ser Jorah and – to Sansa’s astonishment – Tyrion, Grey Worm and Missandei. She forced back a sigh; it was to be expected. She had freed them, saved them from a life of slavery, of course their loyalty would be absolute. She had thought what happened to Lord Sam’s family had shocked them – they had gone with him and Gilly and Little Sam to Horn Hill – but apparently, they had come running back once called.

Missandei opened her mouth but she was interrupted by the Targaryen queen. “There’s no need. We are all already well acquainted. I’m happy to see you here,” she said, her eyes never wavering from Jon, “we have so much to say. But, first, seize him.” Everybody stepped into place, Tyrion let out a long-suffering sigh and Sansa felt her heart lurch into her throat, her hand shooting to grab Jon’s arm in a silly reflex to protect him. As if she could ever stand her ground facing Unsullied’s trained soldiers. As she acted, the Unsullied remained unmoving, but the Dothrakis came to restrain ser Jaime who had been the quickest to unsheathe his sword. “Chain him to a post. Make sure he is within his sister’s line of vision, but don’t chain him too close to her.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion protested. 

And it was only then that Sansa understood what was going on. Ser Jaime lunched forward them, Jon the only one quick enough to prevent him from falling. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be alright,” he muttered, only for the closest ears to hear. Jon nodded once and the Dothrakis wrenched ser Jaime from his hold before dragging him away.

“Ser Jaime is Lord of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, Your Grace,” Jon said, his tone careful.

“Not if I don’t command it. I’ve ordered a tent to be set up for you, next to mine, you’ll find the cloak of the commander of the Queensguard inside it. Najaho will show you the way.”

“I’d rather speak to you, first, Your Grace.”

“It will be my pleasure, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not Lord Commander. I never accepted your proposition.”

“He never accepted?” Ser Jorah exclaimed, brusquely turning around to face his queen.

“I didn’t. As I said, I would rather speak with you first, Your Grace.” This time, the smile Daenerys Targaryen gave him was more subdued than the dazzled ones she hadn’t stopped sporting since they walked close enough to see them. She made a move to leave when Jon asked where they could put their belongings. A single wave of the queen’s hand and the Unsullied who were flanking the common folk escorted the rest of their group to the camp.

Sansa stayed behind, she wanted to know what had happened to the city and she didn’t trust ser Jorah or Missandei or even Tyrion to tell her the truth of it. The common folk hadn’t stopped whispering between themselves since she walked outside the boat, only silent when the dragon queen or Jon had spoken.

Everyone around was watching her, the whispers dying on their own. Sometimes, someone whispered furiously “This is lady Sansa.” They didn’t move, and neither did she for a long moment. She was alone, without soldiers or anyone to protect her should things go wrong. “Sansa!” she heard, “Sansa!”

Theon made his way through the crowd, calling her name, smiling at her – he looked way better than when they had parted way, she noticed happily. He was walking with his back straight and assured footing, his gaze wasn’t wavering, his voice wasn’t shaking. She was so glad to see him alive! She let out a laugh as she embraced him, feeling his hands clutch at her cloak.

“How are you?” She asked him immediately when she took a step back.

His face lost the happiness it had seconds before. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered furiously, his eyes darting right and left.

“I want to see Cersei’s trial. What are you doing here?”

He told her what happened to him since he left Jon. He told her that he convinced some Ironborns to help him save his sister, who was their uncle’s prisoner. He had to sail to Essos, where he had found his sister and they had killed Euron Greyjoy and left the Golden Company where it belonged. He told her they had come here as Drogon blew fire over the Red Keep, making the whole city explode with wildfire – they intended to kill both Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen, but they had been unable to do so for now. At her anxious questions, he had to confess that Daenerys Targaryen had blew fire over the whole city – the only survivors were those who had thrown themselves at sea or ran as far from the capital as they could, once they saw Drogon flying straight to them. Cersei Lannister had been one of them, and now she was chained with the men who waited for their execution.

“What they say, is it true? That Jon is the true heir to the Seven Kingdoms.”

That stopped her dead in her tracks, as they had been walking around the camp since she had told him that she felt watched by someone and they hadn’t been able to catch whoever it was. “How do you know that?”

“So this _is_ true?” Theon looked at her, disbelieving, before shrugging. “People have talked about it since we came back here. I thought it was nothing, at first, but then it… I don’t know… it just started to make sense. I wasn’t as surprised as I should have been.”

“The dragon queen knew before Jorah Mormont came running to her?”

“As soon as she arrived in King’s Landing, I suppose. Cersei Lannister knew it, too. She had children killed in retaliation, so that people would stop speaking about it. Somehow, she thought that it might work. But it did nothing to stop it.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I’ve heard it. People often forget I am here,” he explained in a monotonous tone. As she started protesting on his behalf, he was however quick to assure her that he did not mind it, that it was often more useful that way. “Yara is the one who is noticed – others come to see her, talk to her, listen to her decisions, and I stand in the background, forgotten. I don’t mind it. No one can hurt me, if no one can see me.”

It made sense. She wished she could assure him that he could trust people – not everyone, of course, but a few – but she knew how much he endured at Ramsay’s hand, for far longer than her. She could only hope he would keep on getting better and be glad he could talk to her.

They walked around the camp all afternoon, at one moment being joined by her uncle Edmure who had found Sweetrobin. Thankfully the Lord of the Vale grew quickly bored of this “stupid stroll” and left them, but not before she noticed that her uncle had the time to see for himself exactly why she had refused his proposal of this peculiar match so vehemently. Children in rags came to stare at them, squeaking and whispering between themselves before hurrying off somewhere else, when their shyness became too important. Theon introduced her to his sister, who Sansa was glad to see actually looked at him and considered what he had to say. He thought he saw the Hound watching them from afar, but when Sansa turned around, she couldn’t see anything, so he dismissed the idea, saying he must have imagined it. It was only when night started to fall that he leaded her to a tent, guarded by the two knights of the Vale who came with them and two Unsullied, his steps urgent.

Sansa was surprised to see the interior crowded, as they arrived in what looked like a meeting. Jon, lord Sam Tarly, Tyrion, Gendry, Grey Worm, Missandei, Yara Greyjoy and her uncle were all talking quietly with one another. Theon and her walked closer but, as she sat at the table between Tyrion and Grey Worm for she wanted to be able to hear every whisper between them, Theon went to stand silently behind his sister.

“The priority is to kill the dragon,” Yara Greyjoy claimed. “She’s untouchable as long as it’s still alive. Or well… at least until it’s still breathing fire.”

“The… the dragon doesn’t need to be breathing fire to be dangerous. His very presence brings disaster.” Sansa shot a surprised look at Missandei. She was suspicious of her and Grey Worm’s and Tyrion’s presence in this meeting. They had all seemed shocked and appalled in Winterfell, but they had all been standing beside Daenerys when they came here. If they were here, that meant Jon or someone else trusted them, but she couldn’t let herself feel completely at ease.

“I don’t know how to kill it. It is impossible,” said Grey Worm.

“That’s being taken care of,” Tyrion interfered, his eyes fixed on his hands. “My sister had her Hand and her soldiers – well, the few who weren’t burnt alive with the rest – build another Scorpion. It’s ready. I think it’s meant to be used tomorrow.”

“How do you know that?”

“Her trial will take place tomorrow morning. I don’t see Cersei intending to die first, then have the beast killed, as I’m sure you would agree lady Sansa. It’s hidden in the woods, west of the camp, where they are held prisoners. I happened on it when I went to see her, about five days ago.”

“And you think it’ll work?” Jon asked.

“I’ve seen it working. One arrow in the neck was enough to make Drogon land, if Bronn can aim for the head or the heart, it could be enough.” She remembered Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, he was the only one who had respectfully bowed his head to her when she had been escorted to the Sept’s altar, on her wedding. He was a friend of Tyrion. She did not know if that was a good thing or not anymore.

“And why would you do that? Why would you help killing your queen’s last child?” She had to hear the reason he thought of. If he so much as hinted that he could betray them…

“It’s my fault,” Tyrion said in a breath, his eyes still unmoving. “I helped her come here, her and her dragons, to Westeros and I… I should have seen who she was. My loyalty was blinding me, you were right on that. She was…” He sighed shakily before finally raising his head and looking at her. “I made a severe mistake, and thousands died and it’s all my fault. I… I don’t know what I should do to try and… Now I only know she must be stopped, by any means, and my bro- Jaime must be saved.”

“So once the dragon is dead,” her uncle resumed, “ser Jaime said he’d handle the dragon queen. What about the Dothrakis and the rest of the Unsullied?”

“Unsullied they will follow me. They chose me to lead them. I will say the truth and they will obey.”

“What truth?”

“Mhysa is a master.” Everyone stayed silent for a while after that bit of information. To Sansa, it did not look like the soldier was lying. If she was to believe the reputation of the Unsullied, they were always honest.

“You will fight the Dothrakis then.”

“I will, too.” Gendry said for the first time since she came into the tent. He was standing next to Jon, leaning on his hammer. “I can hide in the crowd, posted near Dothrakis and prevent them from moving.”

“We’ll be in the crowd too,” Her uncle, Yara and lord Sam all agreed to that. “And I’ll take care of Cersei.”

“There’s still ser Jorah.”  
Tyrion simply stated that he’d handle him.

Little by little, Sansa could see the scene form behind her eyelids. She didn’t want to be overconfident, but to her it sounded like a good plan, she thought as everybody left the tent one by one, especially one drawn in such a short notice. Soon, they were only Jon, her and Edmure Tully – of course – remaining in the tent. Her uncle was looking pointedly at her, obviously wanting to be sure she left the tent before leaving himself. She was hesitating though; on one hand she wanted to talk to Jon about his afternoon discussion with Daenerys, and on the other what Tyrion had said kept going ‘round and ‘round in her mind, alluring.

However, her uncle capitulated after many sighs and exasperated glances, thrown both at her and at Jon. “I’ll come to walk you to the trial tomorrow morning. We could even break our fast together, in _your_ tent, before going, if it pleases you.” Her agreeing to his terms was probably what convinced him to leave.

As soon as the outside flaps were closed, Jon crossed the tent and took her in his arms. They stayed a long moment like that, standing, embracing each other. After a moment, Sansa softly asked him how he wanted her. “Just like this” was his answer. Other than those words, they remained silent, breathing the other in as if they had been separated for moons when they had only left the other’s embrace this very same morning.

She did not want to speak the dreaded words and break the small comfort they were creating, but as much as she wished she could forget the outside world, it was impossible. She was aware King’s Landing was still burning, she was aware a dragon was currently flying over them, Cersei Lannister was chained somewhere west of the camp. “What happened?”

Jon raised his hand to play with a lock of her hair, his gaze never leaving it, as if entranced. She figured she must look the same every time she looked at him. “We’ll be on the boat by tomorrow eve.”

She let out a relieved chuckle at that. The smile she wore, as the worry lifted from her shoulders, was so blinding it caused him to smile in return, albeit a smaller one, that did not quite reach his eyes. But still, it was the first bit of non-solemnness she could see on his face since the capital came into sight. “I knew she would agree. She wouldn’t have wanted to go to war against the only remaining member of her family, that’d be kin-slaying.” She paused, for he did not seem to be relieved by her words. “Now she’ll govern the South, but without her dragon and her Dothrakis and with Tyrion and Grey Worm and Missandei’s counsel. She’ll understand that we needed to stop her dragon. She’s not at war anymore, she doesn’t need it anymore.” Still, there was no sound of agreement, no smile, no reassurances. “Is something the matter?”

Jon leaned to lay a kiss on her cheek, “No.” She did not quite believe him. The worry that had lifted from her shoulders at his assurance that they would be able to leave together seemed to have switched to his. He must be tired, she mused, for as much as his meeting with his aunt could be resumed in one sentence for her sake, she doubted it had happened that easily. “Do you want me to escort you to your tent?”

“It’s fine, I’ll go myself. You should rest.” First though, she thought as she turned, there’s something I have to do.

“Sansa?” he called softly. “Everything will turn out right. Do not worry. But… I suppose you wouldn’t agree to stay near lord Tully, tomorrow, and as far from me as you can?”

“Where will you be?”

“Near the dragon queen.”

“I’ll be as far from you as I can,” she conceded, rolling her eyes while smiling at his obvious relief.

She lost her smile as soon as she stepped out of the tent, apprehension taking its hold in her chest and preventing her from breathing normally. She knew, rationally, that what she was about to do wouldn’t serve anything but confirm the doubt always present in the back of her mind. Yet it was now or never – Yara Greyjoy had said that she would kill her on the morrow.

As much as her rationality doubted her actions, those weren’t stopped, and her steps took her west of camp, in the wood. She went unnoticed by most of the men who guarded the camp – the comings and goings of everyone seemingly not their main preoccupation – and the Unsullied who watched over the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms let her pass.

Rows and rows of men, clothed in rags mostly, but some wearing armor, sat on the ground, tied to wooden logs. As she passed by them, she recognized some of them – or she could see that they recognized her – there she could see a brother of one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, there sat ser Ilyn Payne. Ser Jaime was dozing off, so she didn’t come near him. At the end of the row was a tent, guarded by another Unsullied who let her pass without a word after she told him her name.

She tried to calm herself by taking a deep breath before entering, the sound of her steps the only noise inside the tent. A shadow was sitting on the ground, face half-obscured by the placement of the light, tied to a post. There _she_ was.

The first thing Sansa noticed – even before she lifted her head – was her hair. Cersei’s long locks had been her most distinguishable feature, a mark of her beauty. To see them gone came as a shock to Sansa, and she focused on it to try and regain her composure. She stood in silence, making sure she remained in the shadows, observing the woman she feared more than anyone.  
But not now. There was no reason to be scared: she was the one free, standing, safe. Cersei was only the shadow of who she had been: chained, on the ground, alone. She believed herself to be one step ahead, yet Yara Greyjoy will make sure that it won’t be the case.

_I survived_ , she wanted to tell her, to shout it as loudly as she was able to. _I survived your son, I survived you – and everything you did to try and break me. You lost. Look at me, and know that the stupid little dove you used to depreciate will outlive you._

She came closer to her, aware of the moment Cersei recognized her. “Red hair,” she rasped, her voice rough from disuse and lack of water. “I suppose I should have expected the perfect little Sans-” She abruptly stopped talking, making Sansa tense. An old instinct, despite the knowledge that Cersei couldn’t do anything to her. But the former Queen only watched her with a startled look before blurting out, “You’re beautiful.”

There must be a ploy somewhere, Sansa thought as she lifted her chin up. She wasn’t going to enter Cersei’s game. “You shouldn’t have come here,” the former queen continued once she came around whatever played in her mind, “that just signed your death warrant.”

“I won’t die because of that.”

“You’ll die for everything you did to me!” She seethed, her eyes flaring with hatred and – could it be? – fear. “Everything is your fault – it all started when Joffrey died and you’re the reason it happened. And I swear it, on the love I bore them, shall I die tomorrow, you’re following me.”

“I won’t. I did not bring anything upon you that wasn’t deserved. Joffrey is the reason Joffrey’s death happened, we both know that.”

“You shouldn’t be so certain. You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’m truly capable of.”

“You’re wrong, I do. Yet the same can’t be said for you. _You_ never cared enough to see what I’m truly capable of.” She answered with a false dismissive tone before turning on her heels.

“You’re not capable of doing anything, pathetic little thing you are, always relying on other people to protect you…” Cersei’s voice faded as Sansa walked away, putting as much distance between them as it was possible.

She was glad she had been able to see Cersei, not show her she was still afraid – she’s not, she’s not. It did not mean anything that she felt as though someone was watching her, still. She had friends, she had allies, she had a family, she had Jon – they would not let anything happen to her. Cersei’s threats were winds, and having people willing to protect her wasn’t something to be ashamed of. She loved them and was loved in return, she was safe – while Cersei was none of that.  
She wasn’t Cersei, she never had been – she knew that now. And that was worth a meeting with the woman herself. That was beyond price.

==--==

She watched as everybody slowly gathered in front of the platform where the trial would take place. She stood in one of the last rows, as she had promised Jon, her uncle and her cousin at her right side, a knight of the Vale, Ser Duran, at her left. She had spotted Gendry, standing in the second row, so she figured Yara and Theon were somewhere in the crowd. They were surrounded by Dothrakis, the Unsullied escorting Daenerys Targaryen and her court, as well as the four prisoners that were set for trial: Ilyn Payne, Cersei and ser Jaime and a man wearing a Maester robe but no chains, who Missandei introduced as Qyburn, former Hand of the usurper Queen Cersei Lannister.

Their hands were bound behind their backs as her father’s had been and they were wearing plain clothes. The man named Qyburn seemed too weak to walk properly and had to be held by ser Jorah to remain upright when he stumbled. They formed a pitiful group, standing together in a corner.

At the other side stood the dragon queen, Jon and Tyrion. The latter took one step forward before he started speaking, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. “Qyburn, you are accused of treason, murder and unnatural practices unworthy of a man. The Small Council has found you guilty. You Grace,” he continued after bowing to the new Queen, “what sentence shall befall him?”

“Death,” was the simple answer. “Najaho, you will behead him.” She looked at Jon as she said that, and he looked back at her with a small smile. From where she stood, Sansa could see Cersei cringe and she felt herself tense. Their plan could only take place after the dragon has been killed, yet the executions were about to start, and it was still nowhere to be seen.

“I’ve never seen anyone beheaded. My mother used to say it was barbaric,” Robin babbled with a hint of morbid curiosity in his voice, his eyes fixed on the Dothraki.

Qyburn complied without protest and, with a swift flash of Najaho’s scythe, he was no more.

Tyrion’s shaky exhale could be hear from where Sansa was standing, but he kept on, “Ser Ilyn Payne,” _Yes!_ “You are accused-”

“Not him,” the Queen briskly declared. “He’ll be judged last. Proceed to the Lannister one.”

Tyrion schooled back his startled features. “Cersei Lanni-”

“The _other_ Lannister.” The crowd murmured – with agreement, disagreement? Sansa did not know. There weren’t cheering, that was something. Jon’s face had completely closed, and Tyrion’s hands were shaking.

His voice was, too, when he spoke. “Your Grace I-”

“Now. Or I’ll find someone else who will, and without questioning my orders.”

His next words sounded as if someone were pulling them out his mouth against his will. “Ser Jaime Lannister, you are accused of treason and murder. The Small Council found you innocent. What shall befall him, Your Grace?”

“He shall die, too. By fire.”

As if it only waited for this, the dragon screeched and flew a few loops above them, drowning the terrifying cries of people throwing themselves to the ground and the desperate pleas of Tyrion as Dothrakis pushed ser Jaime to the vacant spot next to the crowd.

Sansa waited for the dragon queen’s wailing, laying under her uncle, but it never came. As she got up, ser Jaime had been left alone, Drogon was about to land right in front of him and Tyrion was throwing frantic looks over his shoulder – where the Scorpion and the man who was supposed to fire it probably were. Sansa herself was starting to show her worry. What was ser Bronn doing? He had to kill the dragon! Ser Jaime couldn’t die because Daenerys Targaryen wanted some petty revenge over the death of her mad father! He couldn’t die when Cersei was still alive!

She started pushing her way toward him – he was standing so close to her, why wasn’t he moving toward the crowd?

“SANSA, DON’T!” Jon shouted from where he was standing, making her falter.

“Stop it! Stop saying her name or else I warned you what will happen! You’re _my_ nephew, the Commander of _my_ Queensguard, _my_ lover! It’s me you love, not her! Drogon! Dracarys! Dracarys!”

Several things happened at the same time: she heard her uncle bellow her name, Tyrion bellowed his brother’s, the dragon queen abruptly stopped screaming the command, Drogon raised his neck, readying his fire-breath, opening his mouth, there was a loud SHLANG, ser Jaime readied himself as well. But then the fire-breath never came. Instead, the dragon’s head smashed into the ground, making it rattle. And as it laid unmoving, Sansa saw that a long arrow had found its way in the back of its head.

People around her were shrieking in anger, she heard a man shout “Traitor!” near the platform, a woman’s voice ordering “Kill her!” and she briefly hoped everyone was alright. Ser Jaime launched himself at her, his eyes as frantic as hers probably were.

“Knife. Strapped to my leg,” he informed her before turning around. She took a moment to understand what he wanted and then spurned into action.

“I don’t want to slip,” she stammered, trying to control the trembling of her hands as she could hear crashing sounds and the tell-tale noise of metal clinking.

“My right hand’s impossible to hurt,” he said. He sounded sure of himself, composed, and that brought her some confidence in turn. She focused on cutting the rope, trying to forget what happened beside her. Her uncle and the knight were shielding her back, ensuring no lost blow was coming at her.

As soon as she was done, ser Jaime ran past where the dragon was laying, screaming Cersei’s name. Once the space in front of her was vacated, and before one of the two men behind her could move, she saw a hulking man running toward her, lifting his sword in an attempt – she supposed – to cut her in half. _Gregor Clegane_ , she recognized him from so long ago, and then as if an afterthought _Cersei_.

_Shall I die tomorrow, you’re following me,_ she had promised.

Her uncle pushed her behind them, him and the knight of the Vale facing the Mountain. The first blow was for them, the huge sword slicing through ser Duran and its end lodging itself in her uncle’s leg. She gasped – a stupid move – when drops of blood splattered on her cheek and on her lips. Her feet were moving backward as the Mountain lifted his sword for another blow, the final one.

Someone barked “Leave her be!” and pushed her out of his way. She only had time to take a glimpse of the burnt side of his face before gasping – stupid, stupid reaction – his name. Their swords clinked for a time and then everything happened quickly; the Mountain thrust his sword in his brother’s gut, the Hound grunted in pain and swung his sword, catching his brother at the neck. And just like that, the Mountain’s head parted from his body and the Hound fell onto his knees.

She rushed to him, her hands shaking as they gripped his shoulder. “You… you…” she stammered. _You’re going to die. You were seen watching me, yet you never came to talk. You saved my life. Again. Why. Why?_

He was breathing with difficulty. “‘I… I…’ Do I still scare you so, little bird?”

Not anymore, she thought as she looked at him straight in the eyes. “You don’t. I know you won’t hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t have, never. Won’t. Whatever. Someone don’t happen to have a fucking flask, hm?”

She looked around uselessly – there was no chance anyone would be walking around with it at their disposal – but when she looked down again, making sure to look at him in the eyes, the light in them had already died.

She raised her head once more, watching her uncle sit down to look at his bloodied leg. Theon was crouched beside her, breathing loudly, his face matted with blood, a dirty sword in his hand. Behind him, far away, ser Jorah was clutching at his… missing leg, Tyrion standing over him, holding an axe. The last three who were still standing on that platform were Jon, lord Sam and Gendry, holding respectively Longclaw, a sword and a hammer, a pile of Dothrakis crushed on one side of them, the dragon queen’s lifeless body laying near Jon’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit:** ((HAVE YOU SEEN THIS HUG??? AND THE LOOK ON HIS FACE!! AND HER LOOK!! I’m too excited for a 2-second-video but c’mon on... They could have given us a jonerys scene, or a Cersei one, or an Arya one or a Night King one but no, it was Jon and Sansa. It’s going to happen, people. I believe it :DDDDDD)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, the action and the way everything happened. I know I did not kill enough characters to make it canon-believable (I don’t want to kill anyone, remember xD?) I’m just glad my Theon will get to survive, at least in my fic (did I just auto-spoil my own story? Aw, there’s just one chapter remaining and Theon’s not gonna be murdered in it – I don’t really consider that as a spoil. But I’m sorry if you do) since I’m convinced his chance of survival in the serie is super low (and I’m not even talking about the books). Poor Theon.
> 
> On another note, I just noticed that today was the 1-year anniversary since I’ve watched _The Dragon and the Wolf_. It’s also the anniversary of the first time I grumbled through an entire sex scene (sorry for bringing up bad memories) and the first time I woke up my boyfriend shouting ‘No!’ when I thought Jaime was going to be killed off in such a way. Might have been the first time I shouted ‘No!’ at a screen, now that I think about it…


	18. First I need your hand, then forever can begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed it and that you enjoyed this fic too (well, if you’re still here I guess it’s not too much of a stretch to think you do).
> 
> The songs used for the chapters’ titles are in the first comment, if anyone’s interested! :)

No one moved for a long moment. Her eyes found Jon’s, drinking the sight of him alive and unharmed and assessing if he was alright as best as she could as he did the same for her. She did not spare a thought to Daenerys Targaryen body sprawled on the floor. No. Her breath was still quavering, her firsts tightened on Sandor Clegane’s shoulder so hard it was starting to hurt her.

When Jon spoke at last, everybody was hanging on his every word. “That man,” he pointed at a surprised Gendry, “is Robert Baratheon’s last living son. The true heir to the Seven Kingdoms.” He exhaled sharply and stepped down to the ground. The crowd made a way for him, letting him go past them. His eyes never left hers, but he looked more unsure as he neared her.

“I’m not,” Gendry objected forcefully, repeating it more softly when it did not even make Jon’s steps falter. “I’m just a smith, who was born in Flea Bottom and worked all his life in the Street of Steel. I’m no king.”

“This man,” Lord Sam announced before Jon could protest, “is Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s son. He was raised by lord Eddard Stark. He was named King in the North and fought the Army of the Dead. He is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He’s a traitor! Queenslayer! Kinslayer! She trusted you, she loved you and you betrayed her. She was the rightful Queen! She…”

“Enough Mormont!” Tyrion interrupted the wounded knight abruptly. “You know who she really was, you know what she really did. She was her father’s daughter.”

“He killed her, the one person he had to protect! He has no right to the Seven Kingdoms!”

“He’s my king, then,” Lord Sam said. “I name him king, as Sam Tarly, son of Randyll Tarly and Lord of the Reach.” Upon those words, lord Sam laid his family sword at his feet and kneeled, uncaring of the whispered “Sam” coming from the man he had just crowned.

Gendry followed him, throwing his hammer in front of him. And little by little, the common folk of the Crownlands copied them, kneeling where they stood. That was when ser Jaime came back. He looked at everyone, he looked at her, he looked at Jon before he knelt as well, removing his golden hand and putting it in front of him in place of his weapon.

 

Sansa passed through the rest of the day as if she was unaware of making any decisions and only watching herself walk around and speak to people. She joined back reality as her uncle curtly interrupted her and ordered her to stop fussing over him and sit down. She had found him a private cabin on the boat for their return North, where he was laying on a real mattress after lord Sam had taken a look at his leg. She was looking over him, making sure his pillow was fluffed and he was warm enough. She had sent her cousin and Theon to fetch bread and clean cloths, and they hadn’t come back yet.

They had left behind the common folk and the Unsullied who wanted to stay near King’s Landing and ser Jorah who had categorically refused to follow Jon anywhere. Everyone else had come with them once Jon said the captain would only wait until the evening, leaving the capital – or what remained of it – behind them, Sansa hoped forever. They were now sailing to White Arbor at a good pace, according to Theon.

“I should be the one taking care of you,” her uncle grumbled. He hadn’t stopped doing so from most of the day; grumbling when he couldn’t walk properly on his own, grumbling when ser Jaime couldn’t be found when he had wanted to talk to him, and now that. It did not matter that he had been injured by the Mountain, that ser Jaime had avoided everybody after strangling his sister to death. “I am your uncle and you are Queen of the North and the Riverlands.”

Sansa chocked on her spit at that. “What?” Where did that come from?

“If Jon Targaryen can be named King by the Lords of his Kingdoms, then so can my niece. I’ll talk to Robert, too, and he’ll do the same – Lord Royce wouldn’t accept another ruler for the Vale than you, anyway.”

She was dumbfounded. “That is… very kind of you, uncle. But the Riverlands are surrounded by Kingdoms who will be under Jon’s rule and…”

His beaten sigh is what stopped her from continuing her thought. “I know that,” the grumbling was back, but his eyes when they looked at her were soft. “I also remember that you proposed to marry him?” She felt her heartbeat get stronger.

“You refused.” Gods she could have hit herself. Why didn’t she simply thank her uncle and flee the room before he could change his mind?

“I did. Can’t a man change his mind? Unless you have someone else in my mind?”

“No.”

“Well then… I agree to this match. It’s the only way to unite the Seven Kingdoms, and we must all do our duty first and foremost. And our first duty is to keep peace for as long as we can, especially if peace can be brought as easily as with a wedding.”

“You are getting married?” Two voices asked at the same time. Apparently, Theon had taught a few things to her cousin on not being heard.

“She is,” her uncle answered. “It will take place as soon as I’m able to walk.” She repressed a wince at that. The impatient part of her wanted to get married as soon as they arrived in Winterfell, now that her uncle had agreed to it, but if she had to wait for his full recovery… “Lord Tarly said not before a moon’s turn. He will take your name, is that right? What about his sigil? What should we have embroidered on your bride cloak? Dragons? I hope not, with the current situation, it might be not appreciated.”

“So you’re marrying him?” Sweetrobin was frowning at her, clearly displeased by that new. Sansa held back a sigh. Her uncle had probably found time to inform her cousin that he was looking for a husband to her.

Theon looked on the verge of panic. “Do you want to?”

The question touched her, as she would have thought it unexpected, coming from him. But then, when she pondered about it, he had witnessed her being married to Ramsay, had even be the one who gave her to him – he had been her father’s ward, after all and…

A crazy idea formed in her mind. “I do.” And that was enough for him. He nodded, his shoulders relaxed, and he trusted her. That increased her confidence and she asked him in the corridor if he would mind, once again, for the last time, to walk with her to the Heart Tree.

“You wouldn’t mind?” His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open. There was a cautiousness still present, though, as if he did not let himself be too… whatever it was he was feeling at her proposition.

“I’d be glad to, if you didn’t mind.” The smile he wore then was answer enough.

There was a spring in her step as she strode to Jon’s cabin, stopping to exchange a few words with lord Sam who had just left him, on her way. The newly-named King of the Reach and the Crownlands was unfolding a map of Westeros on his bunk – the only flat surface of the small cabin. He had refused taking his quarters in a larger one when everybody had suggested him to. At least he wasn’t sharing his cabin with anyone else, for that would only make the situation awkward for everybody.

“What happened?” she softly asked when it was clear he wouldn’t start speaking on his own volition. She knew he knew what she was talking about: Daenerys Targaryen. Ser Jorah had cried that Jon was the one who had killed her when they had planned to let her govern the Six other Kingdoms while they would go back to Winterfell and rule as King and Queen in the North, with a strong alliance to the other kingdoms. “You said…”

“I said we would leave as soon as we could. I promised you we’d be on the boat, alive, _together_. We are.” He sounded defensive and wasn’t looking at her in the eye. How could she forget the pattern? She understood, then. It seemed obvious, now. What could he hide from her?

“She wouldn’t have let us leave…”

She knew she was right when he threw her a remorseful look. “She wanted you to marry Tyrion, and she wouldn’t have accepted a refusal. She would have sent you to Casterly Rock, she would have me serve in her Queensguard and she would’ve named Jorah Warden of the North in the end, so who knows what would have happened to Arya… I… I tried to refuse politely first, but it was useless to even make the effort. She was determined to keep me close and make me love her and that could only happen by separating us by any means.” He took a step closer, then, his arms outstretched yet not closing around her. “I didn’t have any choice… No, that’s not true,” he muttered to himself, “it was either killing her or leaving everything I want, everyone I love behind. That was the choice.”

She took the time to proceed all that while chastising herself for not seeing that. Yesterday evening, in the tent, she should have known… But she had been too preoccupied with Tyrion’s presence, Cersei’s closeness, the capital’s destruction and had missed his plight. “You had to. We were all naive, thinking she could agree to let her last dragon die without doing anything. She was going to kill ser Jaime, she burnt King’s Landing to the ground, she nearly did the same to Winterfell. You did what you had to do.”

“I did not do it for all of that!” He confessed, his face crumpling. “It didn’t even cross my mind, Sansa! I… I just wanted to go back home with you and live my life in Winterfell, with my family and now… now I find myself King of Kingdoms that I’ve never seen.”

Sansa walked to his bunk then, and to the map. Her fingers traced the border of the mainland as she was trying to get used to what her life was going to be. She hadn’t wished for the position, never had, yet it was hers for the taking. She felt him walk up behind her, reminding her of his presence, his hands lightly brushed against her waist, not confidently at all, and he murmured “I’m sorry,” in her ear. She felt the corners of her mouth curl upward.

“The people of King’s Landing knelt to you,” she said, pointing at the Crownlands, “Lord Sam named you King as Lord of the Reach,” she continued, “Thanks to my uncle and my cousin, I am now Queen of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale. I think ser Jaime will take his role in the Westerlands. Theon and his sister rule over the Iron Islands. That leaves the Stormlands and Dorne, what do you want to do with them?”

“I thought about Gendry for the Stormlands. He asked me to legitimize him, when I was King of the North – that’d make him a Baratheon for true and he’d have Storm’s End. No one knows what happened at Dorne since the Sand Snakes were killed. Yara Greyjoy said she heard the heir of House Uller had named himself Prince of Dorne.”

“Gendry will be loyal to you, but what about that one?”

“I thought of sending a letter to explain what happened and offer an alliance of sort. Dorne hasn’t stopped fighting for its independence, so if they want to obtain it and they swear to continue their peaceful ways, I don’t see it bother me. Unless you want…?” As he spoke, his voice lost its uncertainty and so did his hands, which were now holding her against him.

“I have no want for Dorne,” she admitted while resting her hand on his, leaning back into his embrace. “It comes full circle, then. You and me, we’re the chance of a peaceful and united Westeros. We are asked to marry as soon as possible by my uncle.”

“If you’ll have me, my lady, gladly.” He went back to whispering and nuzzling her cheek and when she chuckled she felt his lips stretch into a smile, all the seriousness of the conversation swept aside.

“I shall think about it, then.” She pursed her lips in a mock-expression of deep thinking. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from chuckling too loudly and ruin their banter.

“Do take your time, sweet one. Only seven kingdoms await your answer.”

“They do, my king? What about you?”

“I do, most eagerly. I’d be a quite poor king if I didn’t have you ruling with me.”

“Ruling? A married queen doesn’t rule… Her duty is to provide her husband with support and-”

“I need you, all of you. I want you to be my wife, of course, and my lady, and my queen. We’ll rule together, I never imagined anything else.”

“What did you imagine?”

“We’d live in Winterfell,” he said, stepping away from her and to the map as his gravity was back. “The Lords Paramount who’d wish to kneel to us would. For the others, we could sign a peace treaty – we’d leave them alone, and they’d do the same to us – and form an alliance of sort.”

They spent the rest of the evening talking about how they wanted their rule to be like. Little by little, they found a common picture of their life: they would stay in Winterfell and mostly rule from the North. There would be two Hands – Jon’s idea – and a larger council to help them rule – her idea. They would have to find a castle near the border of the Riverlands – she had suggested perhaps the Twins – where they could hold court and where the most Southern Lords – namely lord Sam and the future lord Gendry – could ride to more easily, perhaps once every year.

She left him to rest with a languid kiss, savoring his presence and enjoying the joy her heart was pumping in her entire body.

Her cabin wasn’t situated next to his by any way, but it had never seemed so close. Soon, they’ll be able to share the Lords chambers – which they’ll have to rename, surely – and they would be no need to hide or hurry for the one or the other who had to run off to their own bed.

A presence, however, down a corridor, made her slow down. Tyrion supported himself with the wall, seemingly hunched over himself. Cadder was sitting on the other side of the corridor, their feet nearly touching in the narrow space, half asleep. “Your Grace,” Tyrion saluted when he saw her, trying to stand straighter but failing.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lord.”

“I wished for Cersei’s death all my life, or so it feels like it. As much as she wished for mine, at least. I thought that day would be the happiest of my life…”

“You’ve suffered other losses today.”

“Are you happy? About Cersei?” She saw his eyes widen and he stammered “Forgive me… I-I… This is not my place to ask that…”

She sat down on the ground, next to him, and he did the same after hesitating. “I went to see her, yesterday. I think… I think those last words, seeing her that last time does me more good than watching her die. I know that she is gone, that she won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore – but I think it comes from yesterday, and not this morning. As for the dragon queen…”

“She needed to die. I know it, I just…”

“You liked her, she was your queen it is… normal.”

“I liked… Yes, I suppose I did. I was quite blind, blinded by her nice words and her pretty ideas. At last someone who appreciated what I could do! Varys warned me, you know, but I did not want to hear it. She gave me her trust, entrusted my council. I was convinced she would listen to me when she acceded the Throne while he grew quite admirative of you. ‘Sansa Stark will be a good queen’, he told me once. ‘She has always been’ I retorted. ‘Even as a child, one alone and prisoner to the murderers of her father, she was already one’.”

“You really thought that?” She asked as he muttered “What a fool I was…”

He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I still do. People love you. You have a way of… making them want to be better, even the ones who’d like to wallow in their faulty ways. You have a kind heart and a smart mind. The world better be prepared! I hope you’ll prove wrong everyone who ever thought less of you.”

“I hope the same for you,” she admitted softly.

“I’m afraid I let my chance pass for that. It’s alright, th- Oh, who am I trying to fool? It’s not. But perhaps a lordling will have need of someone like me? Perhaps in a few years you’ll hear about the Imp of Casterly Rock, Hand of the Cruel King Joffrey and the Mad Queen Daenerys. They’ll say perhaps I’m not that bad, after all.”

“You’re not.” But he didn’t believe her.

“Like I said, kind-hearted.” He rose then and exhaled an unsteady breath, but his eyes were honest. “I hope you know that I shall always consider you highly and you’ll always find a loyal servant in me, Your Grace.”

Before she could find enough bravery for the appropriate answer, he bowed deeply and left her alone, the words she was ready to offer still on her lips.

==--==

Winterfell was still the way it was when they left it less than a fortnight ago when they passed through its gates again – for the last time this once.

This time, people were gathered in the courtyard to welcome her home – Arya standing between Brienne and ser Davos. Her sister looked healthier than when she left, and the fact that she was standing – with the approbation of Maester Wolkan, since he wasn’t far away – could only be good news.

Every lord rushed to her, asking what happened, informing her of the latest news in the North. The following week, between the announcement of Jon’s and hers wedding, its preparation, the reunions with the Lords, the stolen moments she had with her future husband, the explanations they had to go through on how the following years were going to be, the arrangement for the peace treaty with the Prince of Dorne and the Queen of the Iron Islands, the gushed congratulations of everyone she encountered on her marriage, her duty as a queen of three kingdoms, the talks she had with her sister, passed in a blink.

Without being aware of it, she was already in her room, having her hair done by her handmaiden for her wedding that would happen in little less than an hour, as soon as the night fell. She was listening to Arya’s talking about Gendry Baratheon, new lord of Storm’s End, trying to forget her own restlessness. She was searching through Sansa’s things for pines to clip her maiden cloak to her shoulders, a fond sigh sometimes interrupting her chatting about Gendry. “You got too much things and too much boxes. Why do you need so many little boxes? Why not ask for a big one, and put everything in it and be done with it?” She wasn’t expecting an answer, though – thankfully, because Sansa wasn’t sure she could find one at this moment – and she went back to her previous topic.

“Is that alright, Your Grace?” Her handmaiden asked. “Will you need something else?”

“No, thank you, it’s quite alright.” The girl had been surprised when she had asked for what she had called a ‘common hairstyle’ for a wedding, but Sansa was satisfied with how she looked. Intricate hairstyles at her wedding did not bring back happy memories, and certainly not ones she wished to remember on that day. She looked like herself, which was what she had wanted. Her handmaiden bowed in a deep curtsy before leaving the room.

“Found some!” Arya cried out. “Wait… You still haven’t given it to anyone?” She held out the two pins and the brooch for Sansa to take.

“I haven’t found the time. And… I haven’t seen him since we came back home.”

“You do know that you’ll be considered the Queen as soon as you’re married, right?”

“Thank you, Arya, for reminding me of that. What would I do without you?” she retorted.

“One day, you’ll have to find out.”

“Not too soon, I hope.” Her sister had started talking about wanting to travel – “See the Reach, Dorne, and then Essos, and what’s east of Essos? What’s west of Westeros? I want to find out, Sansa. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days closed off in some castle, that’s not me. Think of the things I’ll bring back! Presents for you, and Jon, and your children!” – and Sansa had to get accustomed to the fact that it was going to happen, one way or another. That was who Arya was.

“Nah, not too soon.”

She had to take her little sister in her arms, then. She made sure not to hug her too strongly, for her injury was still newly-healed, but strongly enough so that she knew she meant it. She was sure the brooch and pins were leaving marks in her hand, but she did not care.

“I’ll miss you too, dear sister of mine,” Arya mumbled in her dress.

They gradually broke the embrace, both misty eyed and trying to act as if they weren’t. They were saved from it by a knock on Sansa’s door.

“And that’s my cue to leave. I have to get dressed for my sister’s wedding.” She made a face at that, half directed at Sansa and half at Theon and Tyrion who were standing on the other side of the door. “At least I don’t have to wear a dress. Thanks again for that!”

“You… sent for me, Your Grace?” Tyrion had been impossible to find for days, and now time was pressing her and so she had to employ greater means. Cadder had proved to be a great help.

“Yes, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Thank you for finding him, Theon.”

“I’ll be back when everyone’s ready,” Theon said as Tyrion stepped inside, before he closed the door behind him.

“I wanted to talk to you sooner but… this past week has been quite eventful.” She sat down on her chair after turning it around so that it faced her room instead of her mirror. Tyrion was standing in the middle of it, looking as though he was going to hear his own death sentence. She figured the truth of this meeting could wait, she first wanted to make him more at ease. “Did you plan on attending the wedding?”

“Cadder brought me a written invitation two days ago, bearing your signature. I figure avoiding a royal invitation is bad manner.”

“If you’d rather not come…”

“I’m happy to. Really. I told you I think highly of you and I really do. I just… don’t know how to say what I want to say – which is a first for me.” They both laughed at that, and Sansa felt the tension decrease a little.

“So do I. Think highly of you,” she clarified when his only response was a frown. _Come on Sansa, how many times will you have to hear him say this before you finally ask?_ “I’d like to request something.”

He smiled. “Anything.”

“Experience has taught me to be wary of who I said that to. But it’s too late now, you’ve given your word.” She hesitated once more, for such a long time that he noticed it and felt obliged to repeat what he just swore. She steeled herself and finally took a plunge. “Have you heard what happened in the reunions with the Lords? How we plan on ruling – with a sort of larger, new Small Council, amongst other things?”

“Jaime calls it the Council of the North. I did hear. I think it’s a very good idea – something that doesn’t appear to have changed at first sight but, in reality, has not much in common with the precedent. There’s a need for change but people don’t usually want it to happen drastically. So, you offer the middle ground. It’s smart, very smart.”

“I trust your take on this. And I’d like to continue to do so, if you agree,” she held her hand, where laid a brooch depicting the famous Hand had been forged by Gendry days ago – one for Jon, who gave it to ser Davos, and one for her. She had immediately thought of asking Tyrion – he had been a good Hand, she had always thought so, she trusted him, and he had even enjoyed the position. “You don’t have to, of course,” she quickly said when he didn’t answer. “I only… I would like to name you my Hand. I thought I’d offer, at least. You’d have to stay here, most of the time, and it won’t be as prominent as it was, when there was only one Hand, but it is yours if you want it. We could prove wrong everyone who ever thought little of us, together.”

He was shocked, that much was obvious, but she couldn’t discern if it was a good kind or not. His eyes alternated between her open hand and her face. He swallowed loudly before clearing his throat, trying to form words. “I… Your Grace, I…”

“You… don’t know how to say what you want to say?”

He let out a breathy laugh, “I think you rendered me speechless. I am… glad you thought of me.”

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have as my Hand.”

She hoped he could hear she was sincere. She wasn’t trying to hide it, but she had been told she could be hard to read, sometimes. She had her answer when he came in front of her, his eyes welling with barely-contained tears, his hands clasped behind his back as she pinned the brooch to his chest. “You do me a great honor, Your Grace. I swear I’ll do everything so that you’ll never come one day to regret it.”

“I won’t,” she claimed as he knelt. “Rise, my lord. And let’s the world know our smart minds.”

They grasped their hands at that and he left her to wait for Theon to arrive. “I’ll have to find myself a place in the first rows now, the Hand of the Queen can’t be seen arriving late at the Queen’s own wedding,” he told her, reminding her of her nerves and her impatience with one sentence and one closing door.

She busied herself pinning her grey direwolf-embroidered cloak, her throat closing when she reflected on the time she had spent sewing it, every day before she went to sleep. Mother had promised she would be the one making it, she recalled, when I’d marry my prince. Sansa found herself yearning for her Mother’s presence, as she stood near the door waiting for Theon, but for different reasons this time. For her last two weddings, she had found strength and comfort in the memory of her. And of Father and Robb and Bran and Rickon too, she internally amended, but especially of her mother. Now she did not need comfort, for she wasn’t scared of what her future entailed. She was happy, and she wished her mother was here to witness it, to share it with her. She pictured her fretting over little details, pinning her hair this way or that way until the last possible moment. She would have wanted to hold her close, then, but wouldn’t have for fear of wrinkling the cloth. The Sansa of before would have cared about that, but she knew better now. She would relish every moment.

A soft knocking lifted her from her melancholic thoughts and she quickly swept away a fallen tear. It wouldn’t do for Theon to see her crying on her wedding day, he was already cautious enough as it was, observing her as much as he could and never far every time the wedding or its preparation were mentioned. She wasn’t sure she succeeded in fooling him, but aside from a slight frown that disappeared once she smiled, he made no comment, instead smiling back at her when she took his arm.

The walk from her chamber to the Godswood appeared shorter than she was used to, probably because she was too focused on her swelling heart and trying to walk the same pace as Theon.

The path leading to the Heart Tree was littered with glowing lanterns, one before every row of Lords and Ladies gathered for the ceremony. Sansa could see her sister standing at the front row, just next to a lamp, a thin layer of snow starting to appear on the top of her head, before her uncle who was leaning on a cane, his leg still weak, Sweetrobin and Brienne next to them. She had insisted that her most trusted friend shall have a place in the first row – usually reserved for the close family – and Brienne had agreed without hesitation. On the other side of the path, the first row was composed of lord Sam, lord Gendry and Tormund, newly-named Chief of Bear Island.

At the end of the aisle stood ser Davos and behind him, his face standing out from the dark background, Jon was watching her every step.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” ser Davos asked, his voice loud and clear.

Theon’s eyes darted at her one last time, waiting until she had nodded her assent before introducing her, then himself once Jon had done the same, his voice matching ser Davos’ and being heard by everyone present.

“Lady Sansa Stark, will you take this man?”

She couldn’t help but smile as she said the customary words and meant them. “I take this man.” And there it was.

She took Jon’s offered hand and they both knelt in front of the Heart Tree while the witnesses bowed their heads in silent prayer. She could see his thumb stroking the back of her gloved hand more than she could feel it. Other than this small movement, he was completely still, his face serious and his eyes closed while hers remained upon him. Only ser Davos’ fidgeting, indicating that that part of the ceremony should finish if they did not want to end frozen in the Godswood, made him open his eyes and immediately drown in hers.

He helped her stand up and replaced her cloak with his – no, theirs – and, with a kiss, they were bound to each other in the eyes of gods and men.

They led their flesh-and-blood guests to the Great Hall where a feast had been put together, Sansa throwing a last look past her shoulder, to where she believed her parents and brothers were to rest.

The feast was small, the guests fewer than they had been at the ceremony for there wasn’t enough proper food for everybody and winter was here. Arya had just left the main table, to go find Gendry Sansa supposed, when Brienne came before them, signaling the end of what had appeared to be a never-ending line of every castle inhabitants who came to offer their loyalties to the new King and Queen of Seven Kingdoms and most sincere wishes for their wedding.

She did not make any effort of hiding the glee in her eyes in front of her friend, who had quietly protested during at least three persons ser Jaime’s proposition to “offer them our congratulations together, Brienne. It’s no use to do them me first, then you.” Her friend obviously had no want of announcing anything in front of such an audience, so Sansa didn’t make any comment, only thanked her. At last no one came after Brienne, and she and Jon let out a relieved sigh.

“Let it never be said that people do not wish us well,” Jon jokingly said.

“I wish us well, too.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he chuckled, raising his glass.

She imitated him, except she took a sip of milk instead of wine, for it was making her queasy this day. “And I’ll drink to winter, and spring, and summer, and autumn, and how it will begin again and again and how we’ll live through it all.”

They drank to that.  
And they did.

** **

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hehe I don’t know how to end stories – is it obvious? Sorry about that!~~
> 
> So first of all: thank you. Thank you to everyone who share(d) their view/opinion on the story/the characters/anything, thank you to everyone who kudo(ed), thank you to everyone who came back update after update and kept on reading.
> 
> To everyone who’s reading this note, I’m really interested to have your thoughts on the story (favorite moments? favorite relationship between the characters? or any thought really) So if you don’t mind answering that bottle at sea, you can do so in the comments or I’m on Tumblr and open to discussion/make a friend. Don’t hesitate!

**Author's Note:**

> I (really) hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Don't hesitate letting me know how you found it :)
> 
> Next one will be posted in about a week.


End file.
